


forsaken heaven to bring you my love

by fleuravis



Series: with nothing on my tongue but hallelujah [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst, Blasphemy, Child Abuse, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic, First Time, Frottage, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Indie Music, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Obsession, Physical Abuse, Possessive Behavior, Premature Ejaculation, Recreational Drug Use, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Spanking, Sugar Daddy Graves, Truth or Dare, Verbal Abuse, Voyeurism, graphic description of abuse, questionable medical practices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-05 16:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15867486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleuravis/pseuds/fleuravis
Summary: Following the end of Macusa's tour, Graves and Credence settle into a life together in New York.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello again!! 
> 
> this is gonna be another wild ride so get ready for the angst
> 
> (this story comes after [i wear your melodies around my neck](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15620340/), if you haven't read that you probably should before you dive into this one)

There is a long list of things that Percival Graves loves about New York City.

The constant whirlwind of change, for one, the fact that he wakes every morning to something different: the city never stalls, never sleeps, never stands still. And then there's the music, of course — any night of the week he can leave his apartment and see a band playing live or give himself a tour of Manhattan street performers. The food, the fast-walking people, the noise and the light and the art everywhere, everywhere he turns...

There is nothing in New York City that Percival Graves loves more than Credence.

He’s taken to saying it as often as he can, slipping it into casual conversation, offering small declarations in the mornings, confessions late at night, whispering it against the sleeping boy’s head, tracing the letters into his soft, balmy back. _I love you. I love you. I love you._ It still feels like revelation every time the boy says it back, a divine miracle that drains the breath from Graves’ lungs.

Credence, in simple terms, is a living dream for Graves. Beautiful and gentle, offering endless and unconditional love, holding on with amazement to every word the older man says. In an attempt to feel less like a layabout, Graves has taken up an empty office in his parents’ law firm and goes there some days in order to work out future plans for the band, make phone calls and answer an endless deluge of emails, and attempt to clear his head and write. On these days, Credence floats around the apartment, writing, practicing, eating himself sick with the candy Graves keeps in a bowl on the counter. Always waiting to be kissed so deeply when Graves returns, mouth sticky sweet, strawberry and orange, and Graves wonders if the boy will always stay so skinny. He feeds him as much as he can, carting home take out when he spends a day in the office, cooking when he stays home, bringing him out to expensive restaurants on the weekends. Still, Credence’s body doesn’t seem to want to round out, cheeks still as sharp as ever, long figure still cut in a straight line.

As for kissing, Credence is obsessed. The boy has gone nineteen years never being kissed by anybody and he’s clearly eager to make up for lost time. 

Graves doesn’t mind at all. 

Credence could spend hours just kissing him and he does, the two of them laying intertwined in silky sheets, making out like high schoolers. Graves murmuring wicked things and Credence whimpering, losing control when Graves’ tongue pushes in hot and wet in just the right way, lips swollen and red, sweet like candy, a perverse paradise of spit and sweat and cum. 

Of course, Graves doesn’t mind at all. 

Credence walks a balance beam between repressed and insatiable, afraid to ask for what he wants but wanting it _so badly._ Taking anything Graves will give him and offering every single part of himself in return. Graves still hasn’t fucked him, though Credence whimpers for it against the older man’s neck while Graves gets him off with a burning hand, fingers tracing circles over his hole, just hinting at the paradise he could be reaching. Heaven. Nirvana. The first time Graves goes down on him, slow and teasing, pulling back any time the boy is close, Credence lets out a hushed stream of _pleaseDaddypleasefuckmepleaseIwantitplease…_

Still, Graves resists.

It has been two weeks since they returned from tour and Graves is sitting at the desk in his — _their_ — bedroom, pretending to transcribe some chord charts while in reality straining to hear the soft voice travelling from the living room. If he leans, he can see the boy through the narrow crack in the door, sitting in the armchair with his phone pressed to his ear, absently tapping the soles of his new boots together. Low rise Doc Martens, 1461 Bex, shiny leather and thick soles, adding two more inches to the boy’s height. Another gift from Graves. _You can’t be walking around New York in those sneakers all winter._ Credence looks like a gothic schoolboy in them and Graves can’t get enough.

“No, look, I need to — Ma, I’m sorry, just…” The boy puts a hand to his forehead, rubbing at a persistent headache. He’s finally worked up the courage to call his mother and get his banking information, the advance from their deal suspended in the air directly over his head. Graves wants to yank the phone from his hand, give her a piece of his mind.

“Okay, I’ll come,” Credence says softly, “You promise you’ll give me the papers?” A pause. “Thank you, Ma. I’ll see you in a bit.”

He hangs up. Graves quickly hunches over his notebook again, pretending he didn’t just eavesdrop on the entire conversation. A tentative knock comes a moment later and he closes the book. “You okay?”

Credence nods, leaning against the doorframe. He got a haircut yesterday, though he’s keeping it longer than it used to be, just enough to cover his ears with loose curls. Though he’s still quite pale, his former pallor has taken on a healthy glow, not as hollow looking as he used to be. He’s got on his face of intense thought, a slight frown creasing his forehead. “I have to go to the church.”

“I’ll come with you.” Graves starts to stand up.

“No, I…” Credence breathes out slowly. “I’m going to go by myself. Is that okay?”

“Will you be safe?”

He nods. Twitchy. Graves crosses the room, presses his body to the boy's. Holds him there against the doorway. Credence looks relieved at the contact, at being held in place, staring up at him with wide eyes. 

“I love you, Credence.”

That gets him a smile. “I love you too,” the boy murmurs, closing his eyes, already anticipating Graves’ lips on his own. They kiss slowly, easily, neither wanting to step away. Finally, Graves does.

“I’ll call you a cab.”

“I can walk,” he protests. Graves gives him a look.

Credence gives in without a fight, leaving with a sweet little wave as he climbs into the cab. Graves hands him far too much cash for such a short ride and heads back into the building, trying not to worry too much. 

The boy is gone for two hours, though he texts Graves several times to promise that he’s safe.

 

_Just got here. Modesty told me she has a boyfriend!! Ma is freaking out. LOL_

 

Credence has just learned “LOL” from Newt and has taken to using it in practically every message he sends.

 

_Should I tell her I have a boyfriend too? LOL_

_She’s finally giving me the papers. I’m going to try to leave soon. Having lunch with Modesty first. I love you. What did you have for lunch? I’m typing so I don’t have to listen to Ma talk about the new members of the church_

_Okay, I’m coming home now. LOL - also means Lots of Love. :)_

 

Graves feels a spark of affection at the use of the word “home”. Credence arrives thirty minutes later, the vexingly stubborn boy having walked back instead of taking a cab like Graves told him to.

“So disobedient,” Graves whispers into his open mouth as he shoves the boy up against the door, hands underneath his shirt, feeling the racing of his heart through his warm, hairless chest. “What am I going to do about that?”

Credence whines, hips thrusting up into empty air, searching. “How about you fuck me already?”

Graves can’t help the laugh that escapes him. He leans back, holding Credence’s face in his hands, squishing his cheeks together and making the boy’s lips pout. “So demanding, puppy. You’d better be careful with that mouth.”

The truth is, Graves still can’t shake the image of Gellert imposing himself on Credence, manipulating and pushing him, taking what he wanted from the boy with no gratitude, no apology. The thoughts bleed into his mind any time he gets close to flipping Credence over, running him into the mattress with his love, his adoration… it would be different, so different, but still he feels no better. Though the photograph Gellert had broadcasted hasn’t resurfaced, at least to their knowledge, it’s still burned into his brain. He won’t let the boy touch him for fear of corrupting him. Credence sometimes seems like a half-child, his internal age a confusing muddled mix of the wisdom born out of trauma and the regression born out of abuse.

Talking to Credence is equal parts like talking to a genius as it is like talking to a child. Slipping back and forth across the blurred lines between reserved and timid, eccentric and immature, inquisitive and youthfully curious, the boy is half mystery and half transparent — but not simple. Never simple. Living with him has turned Graves into a part time teacher and a part time student, the phenomenon keeping his mind open and constantly in awe. Credence has absolutely no street smarts, no knowledge of the modern world beyond his most base instincts, but he can talk for hours about the intricacies of harmonics buried deep within songs, about where the melodies known so well today were born, about any question you could pose on music history and technique. Throw something modern at him, however, and he is absolutely lost. Newt teaches him the basics of Twitter and Instagram, enough to promise Langdon that the boy at least knows how to upload a picture, but from the dubious look on Credence’s face Graves figures he won’t be trying it out any time soon.

Graves dispels the thoughts, returning to Earth where Credence is looking at him, sulky and defiant, face still squished between Graves’ hands. The older man smiles. “What did you have for lunch?”

“Gruel,” the boy responds, sassy. Petulant. Graves shakes his head with a disbelieving laugh. He releases Credence’s face but keeps one hand on his cheek, stroking affectionately.

“Childish boy. Don’t mock me.”

“Pizza,” the boy admits, “Modesty had never tried it. I picked it up on the way. Ma was mad, but I think she ate a piece when I wasn’t looking.”

“And did she give you the papers?”

Credence nods. “It took some… convincing. She’s still furious about Ilvermorny. She said I’m thankless and that the Devil will greet me with open arms.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Graves closes his eyes. “Here I am, arms open. You want to fill out the forms now?”

They sit together at the dining room table and Graves teaches Credence how to find and fill in his banking information. He’s grateful for his parents drilling these technical life skills into his head, if only for the opportunity to teach them to the boy.

“I don’t mean to pry, but how did you afford three years at Ilvermorny?” Graves keeps his eyes on the page in front of him, writing out Credence’s name in clear capital letters.

Credence snorts. “Full scholarship. There’s no way I could have gone otherwise. Ma doesn’t make very much money and whatever she does make has never gone to me.”

“Mm.” Graves doesn’t inquire further, finishing the last few boxes on the form and then straightening out the pages, standing up. “I’m going to go in to the office. I’ll fax these over to Langdon and make sure direct deposit is set up for all your future paycheques.”

“Thank you,” Credence says softly, and then pauses. “I’m sorry, that. You know. That I can’t do these things myself.”

“Credence,” Graves chastises, crouching down in front of the boy’s chair. He doesn’t need to further scold him, the boy knows. Smiles. Leans in and kisses him, drawing it out, not wanting him to leave. He does, though, collecting his coat and promising to be home in a couple hours. Credence sinks back into his seat, watching him walk out the door.

Graves wonders what Credence does all day when he’s gone. In the depths of his tormented, obsessive heart he wants to put cameras all around the apartment, to watch the boy go about his day, to drink in every movement, every detail. When he asks, Credence tells him, but in such simple words —

_I worked on a new song. I made myself soup. I read from one of your books, that F. Scott Fitzgerald one. I took a nap._

But Graves needs to know more, so despairingly demanding of the boy who is content to offer him the skeleton of his day, the abstract. 

_How long did you spend writing?_ He wants to scream, _Did your fingers hurt from pressing down on the strings? Did you get frustrated with yourself, slipping between chords? What kind of soup did you make, and did you burn your tongue? Did you eat enough? Did you overindulge, so used to taking every bit that you can? Did you give yourself a stomach ache? Did your head hurt from reading? Did the poetry of the novel make you weep? Did you struggle with any of the words, frown at the pages, unsure of their meaning, unsure of how to pronounce them in your head? How many hours did you nap? Did you wake and roll over, lazy and indolent, and go back to sleep? How did your eyelids flutter when you yawned, and what did you dream of? Did you wake up hard and wanting in that sickly sweet, summer-sweat way, disoriented by the midday light, hazy in suspended pleasure? And did you touch yourself, finish it quickly, or did you roll onto your belly and rub against the sheets until you made a mess of our bed? Insatiable boy._

If he says these things out loud, if he vocalizes these yearnings, he’s certain Credence would answer. He’s so giving, so acquiescent, and that is exactly why Graves can never ask.

He faxes the papers to Langdon, who texts him almost instantaneously to let him know that the direct deposit has been set up. Credence’s share of the advance should be in his account within twenty four hours. Graves thanks him and leans back into his office chair, staring out the windowed wall at the bustling city beneath him, nineteen stories down. He could get some work done, of course. He has emails to answer, potential interviews and features, a pitch for a music video. Songs to write, if they’re ever going to get started on this album. The thought of returning to Credence is so much more appealing though, and so he heads back out, locking the door behind him.

Graves could call a cab but he decides to walk, only seven or eight blocks between the building and his apartment. He stops at Jacob’s bakery on the way, though the man himself isn’t working — he and Queenie have taken off on a romantic getaway to some tropical island while she’s on a break between tours. His employee, a quiet teenaged boy bearing a handwritten name tag that says HENRY, hands over his steaming black coffee. Graves picks out a sugary donut for Credence, stuffs a twenty dollar bill into the tip jar and then heads back out.

He opens the door to his apartment quietly in case Credence is sleeping. He can hear the sound of the shower running and so he leaves the paper bag on the table, padding over to the bathroom where the door is slightly open. He’s about to walk in when he hears it.

Whimper-soft, little breaths, gasps. Credence has his forearm braced on the wall, his head resting against his wrist, water streaming down his body, his hair sticking to the nape of his neck. His eyes are closed, head lolled down. His hand — rhythmic. Moving between his legs, slow and long, his body shuddering with each pull.

He can hear the suggestion of words, so quiet they're barely there. He moves closer, craning his neck. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t want to break the spell. Credence’s face is twisting up, lips parted, fist clenching where his arm is pressed up against the dripping tiles.

Graves reaches the entrance, bracing his hands on the doorframe, silent and cautious. He lets out a slow and shaking breath, and then he hears — 

“…because I dread the loss of heaven…”

The boy whimpers, his hand moving faster, his knees bent slightly.

“…with the help of your grace, to sin no more…”

Credence is _praying_. An act of contrition, the confessional prayer, Graves remembers all too well from those terrible days in Catholic school, divulging his secrets in a dark little box, speaking in vague terms about disrespecting his parents and being inappropriate with girls.

Holy _fuck._

Just then Credence gasps, his hips canting, coming against the blue shower wall. Graves backs up, quickly but quietly, making a split second decision and shutting the apartment door behind him. Once outside he sags against the wall, finally breathing again. There is way too much to unpack right now and he forces his mind away from it all, counting up to three hundred in his head before straightening up and walking back into the apartment. 

Credence is just on his way out of the bathroom, a white towel wrapped snug around his waist, face flushed and hair pushed back. He smiles sweetly. “Welcome home.”

Graves returns the smile, though it feels a little forced. “I just took a walk before I came back. That’s why I took a while.”

Credence gives him a strange look. “There’s a donut on the table.”

Oh _fuck._ Graves cringes inwardly.

“Yeah, I — I dropped it off and then I realized I forgot something.”

Credence doesn’t press, plucks the bag from the table. He takes a big bite of the donut as he heads into the bedroom, shoulders hunched. So much guilt carried in that small body, it’s staggering. It’s heartbreaking.

Credence closes the door gently behind him. Water dripping down his back. Powdered sugar on his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Since meeting Percival Graves, Credence has learned so many things._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO... 
> 
> 1\. this fic is gonna be a little different in that the chapters are going to alternate perspectives between graves and credence. the first chapter was graves' perspective obvs, just like all of the first fic. this chapter is where we start to get credence's view on things :) it was really fun to go back and forth in the writing so i hope y'all enjoy it
> 
> 2\. i actually went crazy and made the rolling stone spread on macusa, complete with pics and the full interview (i'm way too invested) so if you're interested, [HERE IT IS](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/177745897835/rolling-stones-feature-on-macusa-january-6)
> 
> 3\. sorry for the endless angst!! but not really

Since meeting Percival Graves, Credence has learned so many things.

How to eat with chopsticks is an important one. The first twenty times he was faced with a plate of Chinese takeout, Credence had struggled to keep both sticks in hand, dropping his noodles, missing his mouth every time. Percy is always so patient, demonstrating again and again, clicking his sticks together expertly. He’s so smart, he knows so many things. Credence doesn’t know very many things — not important ones, anyway.

And then there’s the alcohol. Credence orders cranberry juice and vodka every time now, because the taste reminds him of that first night: trailing behind the older man like a lost puppy, feeling like a guest in his sparkling world. He likes the way it makes him feel, buoyant and not so afraid. Warm all over, numb in the face. Pleasantly aching for Percy’s hands, his soothing voice. On Christmas they drink until Credence feels like the whole world is spinning. He’s never giggled so much, never floated in the way that he does that night. Neither Percy nor Credence have ever celebrated Christmas in any real way — Percy’s family has always been far too busy for that, his parents usually working straight through the holidays, and so he would wake to a pile of unwrapped, expensive gifts and have a quick breakfast before continuing on with his day. Credence, of course, would be in the church, sitting through hours of mass. No gifts, no warm dinners. This year they’re tentative to mark the holiday in any significant way and so they stay inside, in the apartment, exchanging little gifts and drinking whiskey and coffee.

_Next year, we’ll go somewhere warm,_ Percy murmurs into Credence’s hair where they lie on the couch, curled up, Christmas music playing softly from the radio. _I’ll take you anywhere you want._

Newt has taught him things too, like how to play board games and how to make a post online. With Tina’s help he convinces Credence to take a photo of himself with his iPhone — the camera is so clear it scares him, his eyes looking dark and striking against his pasty face, his hair a messy halo. Newt shows him how to post it on their Instagram page, a new concept that Credence quickly figures out is a place for them to upload photos and get nice messages from their fans. Tina giggles at the comments that immediately begin pouring in on Credence’s photo, but he doesn’t even want to know.

Percy teaches him a lot of little things, too, that are very important: how to fill out his tax forms, how to use the subway (though Credence is certain he will never do it alone), how to cook pasta and chicken and how to use the blender to make smoothies. He gives Credence piles of books, shows him movies that are exciting and sad and funny and sometimes, movies that make him get that little feeling deep down beneath his stomach, makes him move closer to Percy on the couch, squeeze his thighs together.

Percy always notices. He’s so smart, so observant, Credence barely has to move an inch before the man knows what he wants. And then Percy pulls him into his lap, Credence’s favourite position, his back pressed to the older man’s sturdy chest, his head resting on one broad shoulder, Percy’s lips on his neck and hands on his chest, stomach, between his legs, all over. He makes Credence come like this, constantly, again and again, as if he gets immense joy from draining the boy for all he’s worth.

But no matter what Credence does, no matter what brave and dirty words he says, no matter how pretty he tries to look, how obedient he is, Percy won’t fuck him. He won’t go inside him at all. He won’t even let Credence touch him, not with his hands or mouth or  _anything_. Credence grows increasingly more frustrated, all his efforts to seduce the man apparently inadequate. He feels like a rag doll, floppy and useless, wrung out by the constant orgasms Percy pulls from his body. The man clearly doesn’t mind touching him, so what is so wrong, so unappealing about Credence returning the favour?

Before Percy, Credence had never been touched at all. He’d heard whispers in the hallways at school, rumours and theories, wild stories of what could happen in bedrooms or clubs or bathroom stalls. They scared him, usually, and he’s always known that it’s a sin. When he would wake up hard and yearning, he’d bite his hand until it bled as he rocked out the feeling against his rigid mattress. And then the first night of their tour Percy had kissed him, and it was so warm and wet and soft that Credence couldn’t bear it. Shameful, mortifying, he had lost control within seconds. The man had simply cradled him, kissed him again, held him until he’d fallen asleep.

And then Gellert. This had been nothing like Percy, these cold touches and emotionless demands. Credence had done his best to please the man, using his hands and mouth to do whatever Gellert had asked of him. It never felt good, but at least he’d felt useful.

Tonight Percy is especially touchy, his hands all over Credence after they finish looking through  _Rolling Stone_ ’s new feature on Macusa. It’s a ten-page spread, complete with full colour photos from a shoot they did a week after their return from tour. Credence had a fresh haircut, his curls untamed but not messy, and he’d worn exactly what Percy told him to — the black dress pants that cling tight to his skinny legs, a faded thift-store shirt, a dark velvety suit jacket. He tried his best to look serious, though he thinks he looks a bit like a surprised baby.

The interviewer had thankfully avoided the topic of Gellert’s photo, something Credence is focusing hard on forgetting. Any time he laments it Percy shushes him, promises him it will never see the light of day again. Now, in the early days of January, the new year blankets that whole fiasco and dulls the sting just a little bit. There are still the comments, ones that Newt quickly deletes but Credence sometimes sees anyway: on Instagram and Twitter, sometimes even on their YouTube videos. Sometimes judgemental and mocking, sometimes hypersexual and derogatory. They theorize about his proclivities, they make jokes about him, they call him names.  _Slave. Gimp. Faggot_.

Credence does his best not to think about it.

They had certainly played into their fan-cast roles for this photoshoot: Credence, boyish and sweetly mismatched, a vintage shirt under an expensive jacket, tousled hair and wide eyes. Newt, prim and smooth, a classic suit, looking decidedly nonthreatening and pure. Tina, her blunt hair pushed back in waves, wearing a dress, appealing to the allure of the female drummer. Credence isn’t sure how he feels about seeing her so put together, face painted with makeup, not quite the abrasive and sweaty girl that he knows.He considers asking Percy why they didn’t put her in the kinds of clothes she wears on stage, but he thinks maybe it’s just another one of those things he doesn’t know. There are a lot of things like that.

Percy’s photo makes Credence’s heart jump into his throat. He’s wearing in a leather jacket and jeans, leaning back in his chair and staring into the camera with the same intensity he wears when he looks at Credence, like he wants to consume him. Credence does his best to disguise his face, his longing; he flushes and looks away when Percy flips the page to the next photo. Credence can’t help but think he looks ridiculous, too childlike, trying too hard. Percy, however, hums at the sight of the photograph, pushing the magazine aside and folding Credence into his arms.

“You look beautiful, puppy,” he murmurs, petting Credence’s hair, kissing the side of his face. “My sweet boy, so grown up. So fucking sexy.”

The words make Credence blush, shift in Percy’s lap. “Daddy,” he sighs.

Percy cups Credence through his soft black sweatpants, ones he bought for him last week from Macy’s. Far too expensive for casual clothing but Percy doesn’t take no for an answer, not from Credence. So he luxuriates in the light and comfortable material, wearing them all the time, getting embarrassed when Percy makes comments about his ass as he wanders through the apartment.

Credence whines and curves his hips up, begging for more contact. Percy chuckles. “How many times today, baby? Not enough for you? My insatiable boy.”

“Two,” Credence mumbles, “I think. Maybe three.”

Percy rubs a hand slowly against his overeager hardness and Credence prays he won’t come in his pants. How shameful, how childish, and the condition doesn’t seem to improve. A torment he can’t shake. Percy reassures him in soft tones every time he laments his lack of control, his immaturity, telling him it’s  _okay_  and it’s  _natural_ , that of course somebody like him who has held back all his life is bound to be excited, to go overboard now. Credence can’t help but feel rather miserable every time Percy praises him for his youthful prolificacy, his fertility.

“Credence,” Percy begins, a hand dipping beneath the waistband of his pants, massaging circles into the damp spot in his underwear, “I think we should go shopping for some good equipment for you. An amp, maybe some pedals. I can take you to my favourite place and you can try out your bank card.”

Credence nods, only half-listening, dizzy from the slow and constant motion of the older man’s hand. Percy always knows exactly how to make him feel good, and that’s the problem. Nobody else could do this to him. He’d never come close to release with Gellert.

“Listen to me, puppy,” Percy scolds, his hand pausing.

“Nnn,” Credence whines, twisting in his lap, “I’m sorry. Please.”

Percy sighs, and the sound makes Credence want to die a little bit. He must be growing tired of the boy’s voracious appetite, his greed. His ingratitude. Credence opens his eyes and Percy is already watching him expectantly.

“I’d like that,” he says quietly, “Can we go today?”

Percy gives him an amused little smile. “You can come, Credence.”

Relieved at being given express permission, an order, validity to his wanting, he does, shuddering through it, turning his face into the older man’s chest, drooling on his shirt. Insolent. Percy picks him up effortlessly, carrying him like a baby into the bathroom where he plops him down on the countertop and undresses him carefully, dropping his defiled pants and underwear into the hamper. He takes a warm, wet cloth to Credence’s thighs and belly and Credence concentrates on not getting hard again.

When he’s clean Percy dresses him in dark jeans and a warm sweater, wrapping him up in his coat and one of the man’s own grey scarves. Pulls Credence close, kisses him hard and dirty and wet. They walk together in the cold afternoon, reaching Percy’s beloved music store in a matter of minutes. It’s huge and bright, guitars lining the walls, playable amps set up in rows, drums and pianos and shelves of sheet music, a haven for anybody vaguely interested in playing. Credence takes it all in, awestruck, zeroing in quickly on the selection of Fender Telecasters, hanging high up on the far wall.

“They’re beautiful,” he breathes, “Can I play some?”

And so they spend the afternoon there, Credence perched on a stool for several hours playing every guitar Percy hands to him, cherishing the warm and silky tones that emerge with barely a touch. So different from his own guitar, the battered and wonky thing, he has to force and shape the sound with immense effort.

In the end he picks out a few pedals and they head to the counter, Credence clinging to his brand new bank card, stupidly nervous to use it. The cashier rings him up, just over three hundred dollars, and he slides his card in, presses the pin into the pad.  _0923_. He knows Percy sees. He knows Percy knows what the number means, what day it signifies. As if anything more important has ever happened in Credence’s puny life.

“Declined,” the cashier says in a bored tone, “You want to try another card?”

“Oh, um,” Credence is flustered, hands shaking. “Can I try it again?”

Again, he types in the code. He  _knows_  it’s the right one.

“Declined,” the cashier intones again, “Insufficient funds.”

Percy brushes him aside, casual enough to balance Credence’s fumbling panic. He swipes his matte black credit card, thanks the cashier and whisks Credence out of the store.

“How is that possible?” Credence asks him as they head back up the road to the apartment.

“Your money must have somehow gotten tied up,” the older man reasons, “I’ll check and call Langdon after we get home. You can pay me back, if you really want,” he adds at the look on Credence’s face.

Credence lays down in their rumpled bed when they get home while Percy looks up his bank account on his shiny Macbook Pro. He plays Pacman on his phone, waiting through the older man’s silence.

Then —

“Credence.”

“Mhm?” He doesn’t look up, focused on the game.

“Credence, put that fucking thing down.”

His heart stops. He drops the phone, feeling cold inside. Looks up and nearly cowers from the look on Percy's face. “What’s wrong?”

“Come over here.” The man keeps staring at him, his eyes so cool and empty, just watching. Credence doesn’t want to go over there. He doesn’t want to exist here, not in this moment, he wants to be back on the couch this morning, curled up in Percy's arms, not in the spotlight of his anger. But Percy repeats himself, sounding more firm, and so Credence gets up on shaky legs, crosses the room to his desk.

“Does your mother still have access to your account?”

The man’s voice is steady, so frighteningly calm, but Credence can hear the anger beneath, slow cracks up the pavement. He blanches. “I… I don't know.”

“ _Credence_!” Percy slams a palm against the desk and Credence jumps. Feels himself about to cry. Swallows it back, hands curling into fists at his side. “What the fuck do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I — I don’t know, I’m sorry, I —“

“All of your money, Credence,” he says, voice turned to nearly a whisper with rage, “All forty one  _thousand_  fucking dollars. She took all of it, and we can’t take it back, because you didn’t think to remove her access to the account? What is wrong with you?”

The tears are burning in his eyes now. He doesn’t care about the money. Not at all. Percy has never been mean to him like this, never been so angry. “I didn’t realize,” he whimpers, “I’m sorry.”

Percy  _laughs_ in that moment, disbelieving and not at all mirthful and Credence really wants to die now, hands shaking at his sides, tapping his legs nervously. “You stupid fucking kid.”

Credence feels the air knocked out of him. All of the panic at once, a knife between his ribs, twisting and stabbing, his blood running cold, veins emptying onto Percy's expensive carpet. Never has he called Credence stupid before, or dumb or incapable, or been impatient with his mind, his silly thoughts, his incessant questions. The first and only person in his life not to use that word — not to mutter it when he thinks too slowly, not to say it with their eyes while they watch his fumbling inadequacies, not to scream it at him when he fails yet again to understand — the way everybody else does. His mother. His teachers. His classmates. His sisters. Gellert. Everybody. Not Percy, never Percy. His heart is aching, a physical symptom, and maybe you really can feel it break. Bones snapping like twigs beneath the weight of his failure. One hand floats up to his chest, pushing hard against the faint beating, amplified in his hollow ribcage. He gulps, tries to breathe. Percy is still talking, still yelling, waving his hands but Credence can’t hear. He can’t think. He tries to open his mouth, to shake his head, but he can’t force his stupid body to move, to comply.

Percy starts at him, hand raised, and Credence flinches. The trance breaks. He stumbles back onto the bed, sobs out: “Please don’t hit me.”

Percy freezes. Stares at him, eyes wide and unreadable, mouth pressed into a hard, thin line. And then he turns on his heel, walks out of the room, out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

Credence lays still on the bed, listening to the faint retreating footsteps, in perfect polyrhythm with the beating of his hyper heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeaahhhh i made myself really sad writing this lol
> 
> [tumblr](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Graves is one, two, three shots deep in his misery and his vision has barely even begun to blur._

Graves is one, two, three shots deep in his misery and his vision has barely even begun to blur. Everything hurts, and it’s more than the dull, distant ache of past breakups, disappointments, failures. No, this is a lot more like burning, like he’s been stripped of every layer, twisted nerves and live wires sparking off in confused agitation.

The bar stool is hard and unforgiving but Graves barely feels it. He orders another shot, throws it back, rests his face in his hands. The bar is quiet — it’s a Monday night after all, a shitty dive bar in Brooklyn. As far away from his usual haunts as Graves can get and he’s confident he won’t find a single familiar face here.

Not once in all his life has Graves hated himself this much.

Not when he broke his first girlfriend’s heart back in sophomore year and she cried in front of him for hours. Not when he disappointed his parents by telling them he wasn’t going to law school, and then again by telling them he wanted to be a full time musician. Not when he failed and failed again at becoming successful, when Gellert began to outshine him at every turn, no. None of that fucking matters. It never did.

Graves takes a fifth shot. And then a sixth. Stumbles to the bathroom groggily to splash water on his face. He misses Credence. Misses the kid so fucking much, wants to hold him, wants to stick his tongue in the boy’s eager mouth, wants to whisper _iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou_ against his skin until this is all erased, all forgotten. It’s too late for that now and Graves knows it.

He wonders what Credence is doing right now. Still at the apartment, most likely, the boy rarely leaves without him. Maybe he’s frantically calling his mother, trying to get the money back. Or maybe he’s terrified, walking the dark streets to the church, prepared to confront her just to fix this. So penitent that he’s willing to leave their home and wander off into the night in an attempt to correct what’s been done. She’ll deny him, Graves is certain of it — Credence’s entire personality is based on a complex born out of being denied. Love, affection, physical touch… maybe she’ll hit him. Graves feels a surge of guilt for even having the thought.

He clambers off of his bar stool, steadying himself with one hand on the seat. He waves to the bartender, stuffs his hands in the pockets of his coat and leaves the building. It’s freezing, icy, but Graves barely feels it as he walks to the main road to hail a cab. 

 

——

 

The apartment is dark when he returns. The bedroom door is still shut. Graves sinks down at the door, tipping his head back against the white-washed wood. The room takes a while to settle down, to stop spinning.

“Credence?”

There’s no response. Maybe the boy is sleeping. Maybe he’s waiting for something more.

“’M sorry, Cre, baby,” he slurs, digging the heel of his palm into his forehead, “I love you. Love you so much. Will you forgive me? Can I come in?”

Still nothing, not even a word in response. Graves curses under his breath, rubs at his bleary eyes.

“C’mon, puppy,” he mumbles, “Don’t be like that.”

He waits a few more minutes and then rises to his feet, catching the doorknob and blinking away the blooming dark that threatens to eclipse his vision. The bedroom is pitch black when he enters and he fumbles for the light switch, squinting as the room brightens. The bed is made, comforter flattened over perfectly tucked sheets.

Credence is gone.

 

——

 

“What do you mean, _gone_?” Newt speaks finally after a moment of silence, his accent even thicker when his voice is blurry with sleep.

“I mean gone, departed, out of the fuckin’ apartment, gone,” Graves is stumbling around the room, looking for some kind of indication of where Credence could be headed. His phone is sitting on the bedside table. Graves curses loudly when he sees it. “He left his fucking phone.”

“I don’t understand, Perce. What happened?”

“Can you just… can you just come here?” Graves sinks down into the armchair, forehead rested on one clammy palm. “I can’t drive. I’m fucking wasted.”

Newt sighs. “Yeah, okay. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

“ _Please_ don’t tell Tina.”

Newt arrives just after one in the morning. He’s still blinking away remnants of sleep, bundled up in jogging pants and a sweatshirt, coat pulled tight around him and flaked with snow. Graves has never been more relieved to see him. He gets up, pulls Newt in to hug him and forces himself not to start weeping like a child. Newt wraps his arms around him tightly, resting his cheek on Graves’ shoulder. “I’ll get you some water, okay?”

Graves nods, sits back down. Newt busies himself in the kitchen, filling a cup with ice and then holding it under the tap. “Are you hungry?”

“No,” Graves mumbles, “Thanks, though.”

Newt joins him in the living room, setting the cup down gently on the coffee table. He sits across from Graves on the sofa. “Can you tell me what happened? From the start?”

Graves shakes his head. “Credence and I… we got into an argument, you know. Just a stupid fight. But I blew up, I went too far, and he was _scared_ , Newt. Truly fucking scared of me. So I left before I could make it worse and then I come back and he’s fuckin’ _gone._ ”

“Well, where could he have gone?” Newt asks reasonably, “There aren’t a whole lot of places Credence knows. He could have gone back to the church, which isn’t ideal, but at least we’d be able to find him there. He could have gone to Tina’s, but I think she would have said something. Not if he asked her not to, though.”

“I really don’t want to tell Tina,” Graves says miserably, “She’s gonna kill me. I know she already doesn’t approve of… you know. This.”

Newt looks away. Honestly, none of them have really acknowledged the current arrangements thus far — Credence living with Graves had been excused at the start by Credence’s avoidance of his abusive home. By now it’s clear that it’s a lot more than that.

“It’s so cold outside,” Graves says quietly. “I have to find him. I have to find him right now.”

“Right.” Newt claps his hands over his knees, rises from the sofa. “Let’s go to the church, then. Credence would most likely walk, you think? Does he have his card with him? Any money?"

“That’s what the fight was about,” Graves sighs, getting up slowly, grabbing his coat from the kitchen counter. “Newt, I love Credence. I really do. But the kid is so fucking dumb sometimes.”

“He’s not dumb,” Newt says plainly, “Graves, he hasn’t lived the life we’ve lived. He doesn’t have the context, he doesn’t have the experience for so much of this stuff that we don’t even think twice about. You have to be patient with him. He’s doing his best.”

“He didn’t even think about his mother having access to his account,” Graves hisses, “She took everything, Newt, all his fucking money. His entire advance.”

Newt’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. He shakes his hand. “Christ, Percy. Can’t you do something?”

“I’m gonna call Bernadette in the morning,” he tells him as they leave the apartment together, “See what she can do. But really, Newt, I don’t know. I guess I should have opened a new account for him. He still had a student account or whatever, linked to hers. She can move the money around.”

“You’ll get it back,” Newt assures him, “He’s an adult. She can’t just steal from him like that. Look, he’s probably at home right now, he’s going to want to confront her.”

“His home is here,” Graves snaps. Then huffs out a breath. “I’m sorry, Newt, I really appreciate you doing this, I know it’s late.”

As they walk down the snowy sidewalk, Graves is reminded why he loves New York — if this was any other city, the eerie silence would make this whole night so much worse, but the constant bustle of people keeps him relatively sane. The cold is sobering, nipping at his face.

“She hit him, you know,” Graves says finally. 

Newt doesn’t look up. “I know. He told me.”

Well then. Graves can’t say he isn’t surprised, considering the negligible amount of information Credence provides to him about the abuse he’s endured at the hands of his mother. Even getting the bare minimum out of the boy is like pulling teeth.

_You aren’t the only person he talks to_ , a voice in Graves’ head screams, _Get over yourself._

“Credence is a really interesting kid.” Newt keeps talking, eyes still focused on the sidewalk in front of him, his boots crunching through the patches of flattened snow and slush. “He’s quiet, but if you give him a chance, he actually has a lot to say. I know it’s hard, though. When you guys were having a rough go of it on tour I spent a lot of time with him and we talked quite a bit.”

Graves does his best to control his unreasonable jealousy.

The church is a looming building on Pike Street, dark and dilapidated, and Graves feels pinpricks of anger throughout his entire body at the sight of it. There are no lights on inside, as it is nearly two in the morning, and Graves starts to realize they don’t exactly have a plan. What are they going to do, break into this fucking church?

Newt seems to think so. He glances left and right before sauntering across the street, long black peacoat billowing behind him. “Credence! Hey, Credence!”

Graves jogs to catch up, eyes scouring the property. No signs of anybody, let alone the boy. Newt is already climbing up on ledges, looking in windows. “It’s all dark in there.”

“Jesus, Newt,” Graves breathes, “We’re gonna get arrested or something.”

“Credence?” Newt calls again, ignoring him. No response. He steps back, hands on his hips, looking up at the towering church. “Maybe he didn’t come here.”

Graves dreads the thought of an alternative. He thinks of Credence, alone and cold and afraid, wandering the streets of this city all night. Nowhere to sleep, nowhere to get warm. He imagines finding the boy’s body, curled up and frozen in some grimy alley, tucked in beside the garbage cans and fire escapes. Credence, alone. Credence, scared and confused and lost.

All because of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we still out here being sad and stuff :( sorry!
> 
> [tumblr](http://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He should be crying but he isn’t. He feels like he’s been sitting on his leg in a funny position and it’s gone to sleep, pins and needles overtaking the limb, except it’s his entire body. Everything is numb, numb, numb._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's a long chapter for you lovely people!
> 
> so, um. things start to get a lil crazy here, check the new character tags lol  
> throwing draco malfoy in here because i'm obsessed with him. he is a relatively good person in this fic. don't question it. just imagine like ... cute emo tom felton but not evil  
> also mal is mostly just an OC with her name based on maledictus
> 
> anyway, enjoy!!

Credence lies very still.

Percy’s footsteps are long gone but the sound still reverberates in his head like the moment after waking from a bad dream. The muted screaming, sounding so far away, like he had been underwater. The slam of the door, echoing forever. _Slam slam slamslamslam._ Credence doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe.

After a few minutes, or maybe an hour, he slowly sits up. He should be crying but he isn’t. He feels like he’s been sitting on his leg in a funny position and it’s gone to sleep, pins and needles overtaking the limb, except it’s his entire body. Everything is numb, numb, _numb_. 

Credence moves slowly, delicately. Places his phone on the bedside table. Meticulously makes the bed. He should leave a note, he knows he should do something, but no words come to mind. There is nothing left to say, anyway. Percy is tired of him, has been moving toward that conclusion for weeks now. Tired of his clumsiness, his inadequacy, his neediness and gluttony, taking far too much of everything he’s offered. He knows he’ll be kicked out of Macusa, this beautiful dream over moments after it began. He has no money, Ma has seen to that. He should have known.

He packs up a change of clothes, a few bananas from the fruit basket and Percy’s dog-eared copy of _The Great Gatsby._ He isn’t a fast reader. He has trouble with a lot of the words. So he reads slowly, carefully, letting the poetry of it wash over him. Ma and his teachers have always thought he’s dyslexic, and maybe he is, but that doesn’t mean he can’t read if he takes his time. He isn’t stupid.

_I’m not stupid,_ he tells himself firmly. _Not stupid at all._

He doesn’t want to take the coat Percy bought for him — it’s far too expensive, such a luxurious gift, but he doesn’t have another option. It’s cold, and freezing to death isn’t exactly top of his list of ways he’d like to go out. So he pulls the belt tight, tugs on his red hat, knit from fuzzy warm wool, and steps toward the door.

Credence stalls momentarily. On the small table right by the entrance to the apartment is Percy's coffee cup from this morning: plastic lid folded open, the rim of the white paper cup stained yellow where the coffee lapped over with each sip. Credence delicately picks it up, cradling it in his hands, raising it to his lips. He closes his eyes and breathes in the stale scent, gently placing his lips over the spot where Percy's had been just hours ago. His eyes burn. He thinks of Percy, sitting in his favourite chair, the pale blue one tucked into the corner of the living room. Mouth against the edge of the coffee cup, fingers tapping at the keys on his shiny silver laptop, glancing up every once in a while to smile at Credence. His eyes sparkling. Magic.  


_This is our home,_ Credence thinks,  _This is our life together._

 _  
_ He shakes his head.

_  
This is his home. This is his life, which I walked right into, which I took from, thankless and undeserving._

  
He carefully sets the cup down and leaves, locking the door behind himself.

As he wanders down the Bowery, making himself small to slip unnoticed through the thin crowds of people out late on this freezing Monday night, he thinks about the first time Percy said “I love you”.

Credence had been panicking, as he often is, though this time it was much worse. He couldn't keep it contained in his frantic little heart as he usually does — this panic had exploded from him. He had cried, yelled, shaken uncontrollably. Percy had sat him down on the floor at his feet, pet his hair until he calmed down. The photograph Gellert had held over his head for so long was put into the world so casually, as though his entire life was inconsequential, meaningless. He tries not to think about that night, the drinks Gellert had pushed on him, the dizzy spiral that left him lax and confused, how Gellert had gone to kiss him and bit down hard on his lip instead, how the blood had dripped down his chin. Warm and sticky. Waking up the next morning, terrified, dreading his return to Percy.

And of course, Percy had been so caring, so concerned. And of course, Credence pushed him away, so foolish, so ungrateful.

So when Percy sent him to the shower on that disastrous afternoon, Credence, for the first time in his life, had forced himself to calm down. He spent fifteen minutes under the soothing stream of water, reminding himself: _n_ _othing I can do about it now, no way to take the photograph back, no way to clear it from existence_. He steeled himself, washed the salty tears off his face, and returned to Percy in solid form, put together and substantial, not the hopeless puddle of anxiety that he’s always been.

The older man had stared at him in awe. Whispered it, declared it.  _I love you._  


Credence can feel the tears stinging in his eyes now and he blinks them away, burrowing his chin down in the upturned collar of his coat. He doesn’t know where he’s going. In the morning, he has to return to the church, to beg and plead with Ma to give his money back. That’s the only way Percy will possibly forgive him. He can’t stay there, though, never again. For the first time, he thinks rather longingly of his life at Ilvermorny — he would stay there late into the evening, practicing in the empty classrooms and doing his homework in the student centre, avoid going home until bedtime. If he hadn’t dropped out so suddenly he might consider turning to one of his former teachers, but he figures they most likely hate him for leaving.  


There's a diner on the corner of 8th avenue, a flickering neon sign advertising its 24 hour service. Credence slips inside and into a booth in the back corner, pulling some crumpled bills from the pocket of his jeans. He doesn’t have much money, only what’s left of the fifty dollars he took out of the bank last week to buy coffee and lunch for Percy. He tugs his hat down to cover more of his hair, praying nobody will recognize him from the _Rolling Stone_ article.

The waitress comes up, a sunny-faced girl, round and smiling brightly. The name tag on her rumpled top reads _Maggie._ “What can I get for ya, hon?”

“Um,” Credence fumbles to open the menu, scanning the over-saturated photos as quickly as he can. “Can I have some pancakes? And a, uh. Some apple juice.” He does his best to smile at her as she takes the menu from him.

“Comin’ right up, dear.”

She steps away and Credence sinks into the plush seat of the booth, tapping his fingertips on the sticky table. He can stay here for a little while, at least, keep ordering in an attempt to stave away any suspicion. There’s only so much time he can spend in this place, though, and he’ll run out of money quickly if he keeps buying food.   


He pulls _The Great Gatsby_ out of his backpack and opens it to his spot on page 71. 

 

… _You see, I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there trying to forget the sad things that happened to me…_

 

Credence turns the words over and over in his head. Pulls out his pen, nearly dry, and shakes it fora moment before underlining the phrase. Just then, a towering plate of pancakes is placed in front of him, topped with whipped cream and a heaping pile of berries. 

“Here ya go, hon,” the waitress beams at him. “There’s syrup right there, and here’s your juice.”

“Thank you,” Credence says quietly, setting his book aside.

“What brings you out here all alone?” She asks, a hint of concern in her voice. 

He doesn’t have it in him to come up with an excuse, and her warmth is comforting. Inviting.

“I got in a fight,” he begins tentatively. Looks up at her, wincing slightly. “With. With my boyfriend.”

“Aw, honey.” She perches at the edge of the seat across from him, uninvited but not entirely unwelcome. “You know, men are all the same. But not you, I’m sure.” She winks. “He’ll come around. You got a place to stay?”

Credence feels his voice start to break. “Not really.”

She frowns. “That bad, huh? Well listen, I get tons in here from Leta’s place down the street. Leta Lestrange. She runs a hostel, it’s real cheap, I’m sure you could spend a couple nights there. Until things get a little easier, ya know?”

“I only have ten dollars left,” Credence admits, “I don’t… I don’t want to be a burden.”

Maggie shakes her head. “No, no, let me call Leta, hon. She’n I are good friends. I’m sure she’ll take ya in, a sweetheart like you. I’ll be right back, okay?”

Credence nods helplessly at her retreating form and then turns to his pancakes, poking at them with his fork. His appetite is nonexistent but he doesn’t want to be disrespectful, so he eats them in slow bites, savouring the sweet whipped cream and juicy berries, wiping his chin with a napkin.

Maggie returns after ten minutes, that same smile plastered on her face. “You’ll go stay at Leta’s, alright honey? You promise? She’s got a bed all made up for ya.”

“Thank you,” Credence says, feeling embarrassingly close to tears. “I really appreciate it.”

“No charge for the pancakes either. You want directions to the place?”

Credence stumbles over another thank you, tries to pay but his bills are gently refused. Maggie directs him down the street and around the corner, and even pulls him in for a tight hug before he goes. She smells like cheap, flowery perfume, warm and a little sweaty, and it makes Credence want to cry. 

_This is what a mother smells like,_ he imagines. _This is the way she would hug me_.   


The hostel is a bit grungy but not unclean, tucked into the end of a strip of small shops. Credence almost walks by it at first, doubling back and bracing himself as he walks in the front door. There’s a tiny makeshift office, a desk with a telephone and old computer, a very pretty woman sitting behind it. Her skin is flawless and smooth, dark hair pulled back into a neat bun. She smiles warmly when Credence steps inside. “Are you coming from Maggie’s place?”

He nods jerkily, keeping his eyes cast to the ground. “Thank you, for, you know. Letting me stay here. I really appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem,” she says slowly. Her eyes narrow, barely noticeable. “You look familiar.”

He shakes his head fervently. “I’m nobody.”

She looks at him a moment longer and he prays her eyes away, staring at the chipped paint at the bottom of the wall. Finally she steps out from behind the desk. “I’ll show you your room.”

  
It’s up a flight of stairs and third down the hall, decently sized with a bunk bed and a single, a large sliding glass door leading out onto a small balcony. Leta doesn’t turn on the light as he enters but the two other residents are awake anyway.

“Who's this?” A giddy voice says to his left. He turns to see a boy hanging upside down from the top bunk, looking at him curiously. Nearly as pale as he is but with white blonde hair, striking viridescent eyes.

“Um.” Credence panics momentarily. “You can call me C.”

“No real name?” A girl’s voice this time, bundled up in a blue duvet on the bottom bunk, book in hand.

“C is fine,” Credence says meekly. Leta bids them goodnight and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. He tentatively puts his belongings down next to the single bed, avoiding eye contact with either of his roommates.

“I’m Mallory, you can call me Mal,” the girl tells him, not taking her eyes off of the book in front of her.

The blond boy straightens up, hops down from the bunk and shakes Credence’s hand. “I’m Draco. How long you here for?”

“Not sure yet, couple days maybe,” Credence mumbles.

“Wait.” Mal drops her book, jumps out of bed and strides across the room, standing beside Draco, scrutinizing him. Credence tries in futile desperation to puff out his hollow cheeks, narrow his wide eyes, pull his hat down more, anything to disguise himself. “You’re in a band, aren’t you?”

“I…” 

“Holy shit, you are!” Draco laughs, disbelieving. “I knew I recognized you from somewhere! I saw the photo in Rolling Stone, dude. The fuck are you doing in this place? Didn’t you just sign a million dollar record deal or something?”

“Is this some kind of social experiment?” Mal says, deadpan. 

“It’s a long story,” Credence admits, “But I honestly don’t have any money. It’s really complicated. I don’t… I don’t know if I’m still in the band.”

Is he even allowed to say this? Is there some sort of non-disclosure agreement that comes with the record deal? Credence wishes he were a better reader. The contract had been too much, a thick booklet of tiny print, and he’d mostly just relied on Percy to explain the details to him. 

“We love a good story,” Draco says with a grin, “Let’s go out on the balcony.”  


Not really seeing another option, Credence follows them out, taking a seat on one of the faded deck chairs. Mal takes the other and Draco leans against the balcony railing that looks dangerously unstable. He pulls a little ziplock bag out of his pocket. “You smoke, C?”

“I’ve only done it once,” Credence tells him, and his mind assaults him with another hot-sweet memory of Percy, who'd held him close against his body and shotgunned him enough smoke for someone twice his size, opening the boy’s mouth wide with a hand on his jaw, breathing pale grey clouds straight into his lungs until he was cross-eyed and dizzy. Until everything felt slow and warm and serene. Percy had undressed him so carefully that night, unhurried and savouring, touching him all over in such a leisurely way. For once, Credence was able to calm the fuck down and just _enjoy_ it. Not anxious about finishing too soon, not terrified of his own body, not insecure or ashamed. It just felt _good,_ as good as it feels when he’s drunk, but in a very different way. Less urgent. Percy had used his mouth for the first time that night, taking Credence in to the root, and every time Credence closed his eyes he floated away, unaware of his surroundings or the reality of what had been happening, feeling only sensation and heat. The memories make him blush. Credence looks down at his feet. 

Draco lights up a joint, passes it over. Credence pales. “Um, I didn’t. I didn’t smoke it myself, it was someone else, they… did it for me.”

It takes a moment before the boy understands, and then he smirks. “Ah, I see.” He drops to his knees in front of Credence’s chair, sucks in for a ridiculously long time and then tilts his head, opens his mouth. Credence, petrified, opens his as well, accepting a mouthful of smoke straight from the other boy’s lips.

Draco passes the joint to Mal. “I’m gonna teach you how to do it yourself. The concept's nice but it’s a lot easier to just smoke it.”

The girl takes a couple hits and then hands the burning joint to Credence.

“Between your lips, yep,” Draco coaxes, “Now inhale real deep 'til you can’t anymore and hold it, hold it… pull it into your lungs. Deep. There you go. Okay, you can exhale now.”

Credence does, coughing violently, curling into himself. He hands the joint back to Draco and feels his head starting to float.  


“So,” Mal addresses him, holding out her hand toward Draco for the quickly-depleting joint, “You gonna tell us why ‘ _indie’s newest heartthrob’_ is sharing our room at a 20 dollar hostel instead of fucking groupies at the Hilton?”

Credence feels his face flushing. “I don’t _fuck groupies._ ”

“Doesn’t answer my question.” She blows out a steady stream of smoke, expert, not a single cough.

He pauses. “I… I’ve been living with my. Um. Boyfriend? For a while now. And he’s kind of… he’s in the band.”

“I _knew_ that guy was gay!” Draco crows.

“Not the guy you’re thinking of,” Credence says with a smirk, “Newt is actually straight. And taken. No, it’s… Percy Graves. The bass player.”

“That dude’s hot as fuck,” Mal declares, “Bet he’s got a _huge_ dick.”

Credence bites back the urge to bemoan Percy's refusal to let Credence touch him, not quite ready to delve that deep. “Anyway,” he continues, “I did something really stupid. It has to do with the money I got from the deal. Basically it’s all gone and I can’t get it back, at least, I don’t think so. But he got really angry and I had to leave and I don’t think I’m in the band anymore.” The last sentence comes rushing out in a single stream of breath, leaving him staring at the concrete of the balcony, eyes failing to focus in their drugged out haze.

“Drugs?” Draco ventures, then shakes his head. “No, you’ve only smoked once before, no way you’re shooting up tar on the weekends. So what was it? Strip club? Hookers?”

“Jesus,” Mal laughs, “You think this kid’s ever been to a strip club?”

Credence glares at her. “What makes you think I haven’t? But no, nothing like that. It’s too much to explain.”

“I’m sure he’ll come around,” Mal reasons, “There’s no way you’re out of that band. The way the articles make it sound, you’re some kinda fuckin’ wunderkind. They’re not gonna let that go. You’re the reason they _have_ all that money.”

“I think he hates me,” Credence says miserably, sinking back into his chair. He’s stoned, not quite as impaired as he’d been that night with Percy, but certainly high.

“Nah, this shit happens,” Draco puts out the joint, tosses it carelessly over the railing of the balcony and beckons them all inside. “You wanna listen to some music?”

  
Twenty minutes later they’re all sitting on the floor on Mal’s huge duvet blanket, laughing at some absurd story that Draco’s telling, Radiohead’s _In Rainbows_ playing from the turntable against the wall. When confronted with Mal’s record collection, Credence had picked that one, because Percy had shown it to him back on tour. He likes how different it is, how strange at times, not quite songs but not quite _not_ songs. His thoughts are starting to not make any sense at all.

They're fifteen minutes into a game truth or dare, which so far is just a game of truth because everybody is far too lazy to get up and actually _do_ anything. Credence wonders in some distant part of his mind if this is what his teenage years might have been like had he been normal, had he not been locked up in a church whenever he wasn't at school: getting high, laughing with friends, people his age. Playing games. Listening to music. He feels an absent sort of sadness like a dull ache in his belly at the thought of all those years he's missed out on. He doesn't tell his new friends that he's never even played truth or dare before.

Mal is complaining that she's running out of questions, mouth full of milk chocolate from the Hershey's bar they've been passing around. Finally Draco gives in.

“Okay, dare. Fuckin’ dare. What d’you got for me?”

Mal grins, mischievous, trouble tugging up the corners of her lips like marionette strings. “I dare you to make out with _indie’s newest heartthrob_.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Oh, fuck you, Mal. The poor kid.”

Credence feels a twinge of irritation at the words. How old does he have to be to not be called _kid_? How far must he go to not be treated like a baby? 

“C’mon, Draco, you’re scared to kiss me?”

The blond boy raises his eyebrows at the tone of Credence’s voice. Then he laughs. “Not at all, C.”

  
And then there are warm lips on his, and this is only the second person he’s kissed, if you don’t count Gellert — which he doesn’t. It’s different from Percy, but not in a bad way. Soft and warm, Draco moves against him, his tongue swiping out at Credence’s teeth. He tastes like weed and chocolate. 

It feels… good. 

Not in a Percy-I’m-gonna-come-in-my-pants way, no, but exciting all the same. Credence shifts on the floor, getting more comfortable, leaning into the kiss. Draco grabs his face with two hands and pushes him onto his back, straddling him and kissing him hard and deep. Mal whoops once and claps her hands before jumping up and sauntering out of the room.

“You want this?” Draco murmurs breathlessly, “You sure?”

“Mhm,” Credence digs his hands into the blond boy’s back, feeling the way his shirt is sticking with sweat. He can feel the bones in his spine.

He wonders, in his doped up mind, if this is what it feels like to Percy when they're intertwined in his king sized bed, making out for hours. The older man is so solid, masculine, not bony and effeminate like he is. He wonders if Percy notices the bumps of his spine, the sharp jut of his hipbones, the way Credence notices Draco’s. Two skeletons, avoiding each other’s edges. He laughs to himself at the thought.

“What is it, baby?” Draco kisses down his neck, making Credence shudder.

“Just… thinking,” Credence says breathlessly, canting his hips upward, desperate for some sort of contact. Draco pushes his shirt up and it bunches around Credence’s ribs. He feels lips, tongue, tracing down his belly, moving toward the waistband of his jeans. He whimpers softly, head floating, spinning. He wants, wants, _wants_ , thinks of Percy holding him tight against his body, hand slowly pulling him to climax, thinks of that mouth wrapped around him, thinks of —

  
“Can I fuck you, Credence?”

  
The words are casual and innocent enough, not at all strange considering their current position. Ideal, really, and respectful, asking for consent, asking for permission. But Credence jolts out of his daze, pushing himself up on his elbows and, appallingly, bursting into tears.

“Fuck, what, are you —“ Draco pulls back like he’s been burned, looking at him with widened eyes. “C, shit, sorry. Should I not have called you that? I didn’t mean to… I mean, I know you from the article, but if you. I’m so sorry. Did you not want to—“ He’s babbling, cringing, and Credence pulls his knees in tight to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself, crying quietly into the rough fabric of his pants.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, hiccupping. “I can't. I can't.”

Draco smiles kindly, his shocked expression softening, moving closer tentatively and putting a hand on his back. They stay there for a moment, Draco running his hand in slow circles against Credence's spine as his breathing slows. 

“I shouldn’t have kissed you," Draco finally says, gentle and understanding, "I know what it’s like. Sometimes it’s good to rebound, sometimes not so much.” He stands up. “I’m gonna go find Mal, you should get some sleep.”

Credence nods wordlessly as the boy leaves the room. He gathers himself up and gets into bed, wrapping himself in the thin blankets. It isn't very cold but he shivers all the same. He's still inexplicably hard, a burning reminder between his legs of what he had, what he's lost, what he can never have again.  


_Stupid_ , he tells himself, _You’re stupid to think you could want anybody but him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor lil cre can't get it on with anybody but graves :(
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Graves wants to hit his head off the fucking wall. He’s suddenly overwhelmed with emotion for the boy; he misses him so much it aches in the most unbearable way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just wanna take this time to thank [brittlelimbs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittlelimbs/pseuds/brittlelimbs) aka [second-salemite](http://second-salemite.tumblr.com) on tumblr aka my favourite fic author ever for brainstorming/headcanoning the hell out of this story with me and helping me develop the plot <3 love you girl

Graves can only put off the inevitable for so long.

Tina looks horrified the moment he begins telling the story, and her expression only hardens more with every word he says. He tries not to look at her, not to feel the slow drip of guilt, but it’s impossible.

“I don’t know where he is,” he finishes quietly, “He didn’t take his phone. He didn’t take anything, really.”

“His guitar is still at the warehouse,” Newt confirms, emerging from the kitchen and placing a hot mug of coffee down in front of Graves. He settles into the corner of the sofa. “I think he’s going to come back. It’s just a matter of time.”

“Is there any way at all that we can figure out where he’d go?” Tina demands, “I mean, you know him, Graves. Who would he turn to?”

“That’s the problem,” Graves sighs, “I can’t think of a single fucking person. We went to the church last night but it was late. We can try again today. I’m pretty sure his mother may try to castrate me.”

“This isn’t about you!” Tina seethes, “This is about _Credence_. Maybe if you’d been nicer, maybe if you’d just—“

“I know, fuck, Tina, you think I don’t know that?” He’s shouting now. He lowers his voice, takes a sip of coffee. Black, the bitterness hitting his tongue, pleasingly harsh. The pounding headache at his temple begins to recede. “I know that I fucked up. I know it’s my fault. But I can’t take it back now, so we have to try to focus on finding him.”

“Credence has been living in the shadows all his life,” Newt murmurs, staring out the window as the snow slowly falls, blanketing Manhattan, making everything look much more peaceful. “A kid like that knows how to hide.”

 

——

 

Graves feels a little bit like he’s leading a team of intelligence agents in an action movie as he marches up the steps of the church, flanked by Tina and Newt. He knows deep down they’re all fucking terrified, but hopefully they can maintain the facade of confidence at least until they figure out if Credence is here. A million possibilities are running through his mind — the best being that Credence is simply safe and sleeping in his old bedroom, the worst being that his mother has him crucified in the chapel. 

He doesn’t voice these ideas out loud.

“Do we just like, walk in?” Tina asks awkwardly after they’ve finished their faux-intimidating strut up the front steps.

“There doesn’t seem to be a doorbell,” Newt says, amused, glancing over his shoulder at the street behind them. No one is paying them any notice.

Graves takes the lead, pushing open the heavy wooden door. It’s silent inside, no service today. He glances around the dark entrance and then steps back. “There must be a house around back or something where they actually live. I don’t think they sleep in here.” His traitorous brain forces a memory to the forefront of his mind, that first night of their tour, Credence drunk and sleepy next to him in bed, looking at him with those glimmering eyes. _I don’t sleep in the chapel_. He shakes his head. “Come on, maybe there’ll even be a doorbell.”

They find the house tucked in just behind the church, small and unassuming, clearly very old. Graves tries not to lose his nerve as he knocks three times, stepping back to wait. Hands clasped behind his back.

The door opens to reveal not the monstrous, evil woman he’d expected, but instead a small girl with white blonde hair, scrawny and wide-eyed, a pale blue dress practically hanging off of her thin shoulders. “Who are you?”

Graves had been planning a major confrontation and a somewhat dramatic monologue but now he finds himself at a loss for words. Newt steps forward, saving him. “We’re friends of Credence. Is he your brother?”

The girl nods, peering at them suspiciously. “Credence doesn’t have any friends.”

Graves wants to hit his head off the fucking wall. He’s suddenly overwhelmed with emotion for the boy; he misses him so much it aches in the most unbearable way.

“We love Credence,” Tina speaks up, smiling at the girl, clearly trying to gain her trust as the only female in the group. “He’s so wonderful and talented. You must love him too, right?”

Slowly, the girl seems to relax, letting her tightened shoulders drop. “I do. I miss him.”

Graves sags. “So he isn’t here?” 

“He came here this morning, but Mama wouldn’t let me talk to him for very long.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “They were arguing. And then he left.”

“When was he here?” Newt urges, “Did he tell you where he was going? Or did you hear him tell your mother?”

She shakes her head. “I mostly just heard Mama yelling. He can’t stay here anymore. His soul is with the Devil now.”

_ Jesus fucking Christ, what is this girl, nine? Ten?  _

“Credence isn’t a demon,” Graves says impatiently. Tina elbows him, hard, and he tries to ease up his tone. “We’re very worried about him. If you have any idea where he might have gone, even the smallest detail, something he’s maybe mentioned in the past… we’d all really appreciate it.”

Tina and Newt nod in unison. They all hold their breath as the girl opens her mouth.

  
“Modesty Barebone, who are you speaking to?”

The voice comes from behind the small girl and a tall, imposing woman emerges from another room. Her face is stern, her mouth cut in a hard line, creases on her forehead from a lifetime of frowning. Her hair is cut blunt and straight and now Graves gets where the weird bowl cut comes from. 

“Credence’s friends, Mama,” the girl says softly, cowering in the shadow of the stately woman.

Her mother’s eyes narrow, her mouth pressing even tighter. “So, the little group of heretics my dishonourable son has been running around with. Which one of you is the invert?”

Graves gapes. “Did she just call me a fuckin’ _invert_?”

“Percival!” Tina hisses.

“Sorry, no offence,” Graves’ tone is not at all apologetic, “Are we in the 1920s?”

“Anyway,” Newt interrupts, glaring at Graves, “We’re very worried about Credence. We haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

“Since you stole all his money,” Graves adds. Tina and Newt give up on trying to restrain him.

The woman’s grimace twists on her face, as if she’s trying to smile but can’t quite manage it. “Oh, dear, what did Credence tell you? I didn’t steal a thing from him. He kindly donated his earnings to the church. It will go towards renovations, as well as food for all the orphan children that we help here. It’s the least he could do, considering how quickly he turned his back on the Lord.”

Graves is fuming. “Credence didn’t give that money away. You transferred it out of his account, he didn’t even _know—_ “

“Credence is paying his dues,” she cuts him off, “Penitence for his misguided ways, his homosexual leanings. He could give away millions and still will stand in the face of that repulsive photograph when he meets the Lord.”

Graves is stunned. He wants to lash out, to destroy this woman, but instead he turns on his heel and walks away from the church. Tina and Newt hesitate for a moment and then run to catch up with him. He can hear the door slam in his wake.  


“She knows what she’s doing,” Tina mutters, head down as they walk swiftly back down Pike Street, “He can’t say a word. He’ll look awful if he tries to fight her in court when she claims it was a charitable donation for fucking _orphans._ He’s stuck. There’s no way out of this.”  


“Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ ” Graves jams the heels of his palms into his eyes, seeing stars. “If Credence talked to her this morning he’s probably hysterical right now. We need to find him.”

“Graves…” Newt says gently. Stops walking. The other two halt in their tracks and turn back to him. He takes in a slow breath, blows it out, clouds of warm air trailing like smoke into the sky above them. “Percy. Listen. I think the only thing we can do right now is wait for Credence to come back.”

“What are you talking about?” Graves demands, “We have to go after him, he’s out there alone and afraid and it’s—“

“He’s nineteen years old,” Newt says sharply, and he’s never taken such a tone with Graves before. “Not nine. Graves, he’s not a child. He’s going to come back. He just needs some time.”

“He needs me.”

“He needs time,” Newt repeats, “Be realistic. Where are we going to look for him? He could be anywhere in New York. I don’t think he’d leave the city, he doesn’t really have a way to. Let’s give it a few days and see what happens, okay? If he isn’t back by Friday we’ll come up with a plan.”

 

Graves feels the pinpricks of tears and turns away, breathing hard. Finally, finally… “Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> repent your sins graves!! shoulda been nicer!!
> 
> [tumblr](http://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The whole world tilts slightly, and Credence is vaguely surprised he doesn’t slide across the floor, fall flat on his back against the wooden wall. Everything goes very quiet and very still. He can hear the hum of blood pumping in his ears. Staticky nothing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note the added archive warning and tags!! there are some violent scenes, both in the current storyline and some very graphic depictions of past abuse in credence's life. they aren't long segments but i just wanted to make everyone aware in case that freaks you out.
> 
> this is a long one with lots of angst i PROMISE there is happiness on the horizon <3

Clouds hang low and heavy in the sky, obscuring the sun and casting dull grey shadows all over everything. Credence crosses the church lawn in slow steps, his heart knocking violently at the inside of his chest, a drumbeat, a cacophony. He’s been back here before, he reminds himself, and it was okay. Yes, Ma insulted and cursed him, but he ate pizza with Modesty and was not hanged for his crimes. If Ma hadn’t seen the photograph by then, hadn’t heard the murmurings about his proclivities that circulate the lowliest online forum boards, it’s unlikely she’s heard them now.

Still, his stomach is a bottomless black hole as he approaches the house, everything inside him sinking.

Modesty answers the door, looking overjoyed at the sight of him. She quickly straightens her face and says in a serious whisper: “Mama is awake, Credence. You shouldn’t come in here.”

“I have to, Modesty,” he tells her, hoping his voice doesn’t betray the uncertainty he feels. “I have to talk to her.”

“Credence, I miss you,” she says, her voice very small. She's clothed in the same ratty dress she always wears, looking frighteningly thin. His chest hurts at the sight of her, the victim he left in his wake, most likely Ma's newest target without him around to bear her anger. He smiles sadly and kneels down, pulling his sister close against his body, arms wrapped tight around her.

“I miss you too. I wish I could take you with me.”

Then he straightens up and takes a breath. The house echoes the traumas of his childhood, the war-torn halls, the curtained windows. Somehow it did not seem so dreadful when he'd returned a few weeks ago to get his bank forms. Back then, he had Percy to return to, Percy waiting faithfully for him to come home, Percy sending him texts and reassuring him.  _I love you, puppy. Everything will be fine. Let me know if you need me to come get you._ Percy, who would drop anything and everything to keep him safe. Now all he has is a room at a hostel, a backpack full of nothing, an ache in his heart so deep it makes him sick.  He watches himself walk through the hallway like a video game character, steering his terrified form into the kitchen. She’s there, one hand holding a plate and the other holding a towel, frozen at the sound of his footsteps.

“Ma,” he says, his voice hoarse, “I need to talk to you.”

She turns, her face a cruel half-smile. “Hello, Credence. I’m surprised you’re not ashamed to show your face here, so close to the house of God.”

“What are you talking about, Ma?” He demands, “I gave nineteen years of my life to the Lord. I did everything. I’m allowed to move forward, to have a career.”

“You gave _nothing_ ,” she spits, “I raised you to someday be an honest and God fearing man and instead you’re running around with homosexuals, making pornography… it is monstrous. You are a deplorable, shameful boy.”

The whole world tilts slightly, and Credence is vaguely surprised he doesn’t slide across the floor, fall flat on his back against the wooden wall. Everything goes very quiet and very still. He can hear the hum of blood pumping in his ears. Staticky nothing. Maybe she’s still speaking or maybe she isn’t, he doesn’t know.

Finally:

  
“My money, Ma. I need it.”  
  


“That money will go to a good cause,” she declares, turning away from him again, back to washing dishes. “Orphans need their dinner, the church needs renovating.”

“Ma!” He shouts, and her hand stills. “I need that money.”

She turns around very slowly and Credence feels like a child again, cowering from her hand, from the belt, remembers being curled in a corner, getting hit again and again, bleeding from his back and his hands, begging for forgiveness. Repenting. He shudders, tries to stand tall. Old scars burn like fresh welts. He clenches his fists hard, his sweaty palms, plants his feet on the floor.  
  


“Get out of my house, you ungrateful child.”  
  


Credence hears the glass before he feels it, the dull _thunk_ of the thing hitting his forehead, the sharp shattering sound, the rhythmic crash and clink of the pieces hitting the floor. The room goes silent again and he feels like he’s underwater, stumbling backwards, hand to his temple. Clutching, holding, trying to keep his balance, trying not to let the dark spots in his vision overtake everything. If he passes out, she’ll kill him. If he passes out, she’ll drag him to the cellar and lock him in there for days, just like she did when he was a child.  


“Ma,” he gasps, struggling for air, seeing her through a blurry fog, discordant and shaky. He pulls his hand away from his head, looks at it, seeing double, seeing the blood staining his skin, dripping everywhere. Grenadine, sticky sweet, like the candy that Percy always leaves for him. His lips, strawberry syrup, kissing and licking into his mouth.  _Blood, blood, blood._  
  


She’s watching him calmly as he struggles to steady himself, head pounding. He forces himself to stay conscious, blinking hard. He’s dizzy, so dizzy, and his face is viscid with blood. When he’s able to hold himself upright he turns and bolts, down the hallway and out the front door, clutching at the wall the whole way. Modesty must have gone up to her room and he’s grateful she didn’t witness this but he wishes he could say goodbye. Once out in the cool January air he keeps his head down, shoving his bloodstained hands into the pockets of his coat, walking quickly down the sidewalk and feeling like his brain is doing backflips inside his skull.

He wants to go straight back to Leta’s but it’s much too far; it took him an hour and a half just to walk to the church this morning. So he staggers into the first cafe he comes across, making a beeline to the bathroom, not lifting his head enough for anybody to see his face. 

  
The door to the single bathroom locks with a click and Credence braces his hands on either side of the sink, staring himself down in the mirror. There’s a jagged cut down the side of his face like cracked pavement, red and angry, starting at his forehead and slicing down through his eyebrow to the hollow of his cheek. Blood is streaming slowly, steadily. It’s all over his hands, dyeing the sleeves of his shirt a dark red-brown.  He gags, clutching his belly, and throws up into the sink. Clear fluid, sharp on his tongue, no food for his stomach to offer up. 

Credence starts to cry, shoulders hunching, ugly and loud, trying to muffle the sound with his fist in his mouth. Last week his life was so perfect, like God finally didn’t hate him so much, like his existence was no longer a punishment for some wicked misdeeds. Now he knows. He is tainted, sinful. Born evil, as his mother used to tell him, born with dark spots in his soul that have only grown larger with time. A few months of a spectacular life was held in front of him, a silver screen image of everything he doesn't deserve. That life was never meant for him.

He gives himself a few minutes to weep before pulling some paper towels from the dispenser and cleaning himself up. He dabs at his face, wincing, the cut vicious and deep. In all likelihood he needs stitches. He manages to get all the blood off of his face though the wound itself is still oozing. He holds a balled up piece of paper towel to the stream, pressing hard, praying it will scab itself over quickly. 

Credence watches the blood spiral down the drain as he washes his hands. The throbbing pain in his head doesn’t upset him as much as it should: a physical embodiment of the desperate heartache he’s feeling. Pain is something he knows, something he understands. It makes it easier to bear.  


 

——

 

It takes him two hours to get back to Leta’s. He’s moving more slowly, his feet not working as well as they should, head still swimming. He keeps a wad of paper towels pressed to the side of his face, still leaking crimson in a steady flow. Leta isn’t at the desk when he arrives but Mal is in their room, curled into the corner of her bed and writing furiously in a notebook. She looks up when he arrives and her smile of greeting instantly vanishes, jaw dropping. She snaps the book closed and jumps out of bed.

“Credence,” she breathes, “Are you okay? What happened?” She pushes his hair back tenderly, avoiding the cut with her fingertips, peering at him closely. His heart warms at the simple affection, the careful touch.

“You know how I told you I lost all my money?” He says grimly, tilting his head so she can get a better look. “It was my mother. There’s a long history there that I can’t really get into but I tried to confront her and she threw a glass at my head.”

“Well fuck,” Mal says, though she doesn’t sound entirely surprised. Credence knows this place is likely full of abused kids, runaways, outcasts. He isn’t the first to suffer at the hands of a cruel parent. “I’m sorry, C. Does it hurt a lot? I’ve got some Tylenol in my bag.”

“I think I have a concussion,” he admits. “And it’s still bleeding. I think I need stitches.”

She huffs out a breath and then straightens, nods. “Okay. Do you trust me?”

“Depends what for.” He winces, hand floating up to cradle his head.

“Wait for me in the bathroom. Try to get all the blood off of the skin around it. I’ll just be a sec.”  


He gives her a dubious look but obeys, heading into their small bathroom and washing his face carefully. Even the water stings and makes his stomach clench. She comes in a minute later, holding a small first aid kit in one hand and the ice tray from their miniature freezer in the other. “I’ve stitched up tons of hands and arms in here. A face shouldn’t be too different.”  


Credence pales a little. “Maybe I should go to the hospital.”

She laughs. “You got health insurance? Yeah, didn’t think so. A few stitches plus emergency room fees will cost you a couple thousand at least. Unless you want to call up your rich boyfriend and have him pay for it, I’m your best bet. Trust me, going to the hospital is rarely worth it.”

He concedes and sits down on the closed toilet seat. Mal wets her hand and pushes his hair back out of his face, clipping it into place with a few pins.  


“Don’t you look cute,” she grins, “I’ll try not to fuck up your face too much. Don’t want to disappoint the fangirls.” She pauses, considering. “It might make them love you more, actually. Those kinda girls always root for the punching bag.”

“Thanks,” he says wryly, “Appreciate that.”

“Shush,” she tells him, “And hold still. I’m gonna clean it first, okay? This might hurt.”

He digs his fingers into his knees, white knuckled, as she dabs alcohol slowly across the open wound. A shiver runs through the length of body, tingling pain, cold and sharp. He’s hit with a sudden wave of nausea and he jolts up, sending Mal hopping backwards.

“Sorry,” he gasps, falling to his knees on the floor and slamming the toilet lid up. He heaves once, twice, yet again vomiting nothing but acidic fluid, burning the inside of his throat, coming out his nose and making him choke. The nausea rolls through him again and again but his stomach is empty and so he sits there, dry heaving, Mal rubbing his back slowly. When his head finally clears he falls back, breathing hard. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry,” she shushes him, “You’re okay. Can you sit back up?”  


He nods and clambers up, closing the toilet lid and sitting down again. She touches the alcohol-soaked fabric to his forehead once more, making sure it’s still clean.

“You okay, baby?” She murmurs, concentrating closely on his forehead, running over the cut one more time.

Credence hums his assent, front teeth clamped hard on his bottom lip. In the darkest parts of himself he pictures a hospital bed, his weary body wrapped in thin blankets, a nurse taking his temperature while Percy stands by, concerned and contrite. A windowsill filled with flowers, because even if nobody else sent any, Percy would make sure not a surface in the room was without a vase. He imagines Percy kneeling at his bedside, apologizing and professing his love, his low and doting voice, his hands cocooning Credence's in their warmth. He wants Percy to worry for him, to pray for him, to take care of him. It's a silly and selfish thought, it's not as though he's dying. He is simply wounded, and even that sounds melodramatic, though Credence thinks the word is rather appropriate for how he feels.

He comes back to the present at the sound of Mal's voice.

“Okay, this next part is going to be worse. I’ll do it as quick as I can. I just need you to stay really, really still.”

“Mhm.” He does his best not to move and she pops an ice cube out of the tray, placing it in his palm.

“Don’t put it directly on the cut, kind of all around it. Until you’re numb. It’s not an anaesthetic but it should make it a little easier.”

He follows her instructions, pressing the ice to his head as she holds the tip of the needle in the flame from her pastel blue lighter and weaves it through with sewing thread.

“Alright,” she says gently, “You can take the ice away. You want me to count?”

“Sure.” His voice shakes. He closes his eyes.

Her voice is calming, low. “Three, two, one.”  


The needle pushes under his skin and he squeezes his fists, not letting himself flinch. It takes her several minutes to stitch up the cut and he trembles the whole time, not breathing, not moving an inch.

“Okay,” she whispers finally, “Done.”

She pulls away and he slumps, letting his body relax. “Thank you.”

Mal grins. “I'm adding you to my reference list. I think I did a decent job. Wasn’t too bad, was it? At least I didn’t have to cauterize it.”

He gets up and inspects himself closely in the mirror. He has to admit, it doesn’t look bad at all — the stitches are visible, obviously, and very crooked, but they do their job holding his skin together. No blood leaks out. He's only had stitches once before. He was thirteen, maybe fourteen, and Ma caught him with a book he had managed to sneak home from the school library, tucked away deep in his backpack between textbooks. It was a thin chapter book, meant for young adults: a love story about two teenage boys. Credence had been simultaneously thrilled and terrified, for the first time realizing that there are others like him, that his feelings aren't a divine punishment, a sick perversion. Ma walked in as he was in bed reading and Hell broke loose. She ripped it from his hands, tore out chunks of pages, screamed and cursed him, told him he is vile and wicked and that he had disgraced their holy house. And then she threw him to the floor and whipped him with a newfound violence, sadistic and brutal, the sharp metal edge of the belt instead of the usual leather. She hit him until he screamed and cried and begged, trying to crawl away, bruised and bleeding. Modesty gripping the doorframe, shaking and sobbing, watching the torture with saucepan eyes. When Ma finally relented he was convulsing with the pain, a gash on his arm spilling puddles on the hardwood floor. It had inconvenienced her greatly, and to this day Credence feels smug at the small victory. She had clothed him in long sleeves and pants, threatened him the whole way to the hospital.

_He fell out of a tree,_ she told the skeptical doctors,  _He's always out playing carelessly._  


In the end, nobody questioned her and Credence went home with six stitches and a limp.

Mal smooths a large bandaid over the spot and pats his damp head. “There. Good as new. As for the concussion, I’ll get you some Tylenol and water and then you should try to sleep. I’m gonna have to wake you up every once in a while, though. Make sure you’re not dead and all that.”

“Thanks,” he says grimly, “I'm pretty tired.”  


And he does fall quickly and deeply into dreamless sleep, only to be woken what feels like only minutes later, Mal’s warm hand soft against his sweaty cheek. 

“You were talking,” she murmurs, “Good sign, probably.”

He yawns. “How long has it been?”

“A couple hours. You can go back to sleep. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Thanks,” he sighs, closing his eyes again and rolling over onto his back. Mal returns to her bed and he’s asleep again before he knows it.

When he wakes the second time it’s dark in the room. Mal is there again, kneeling at his bedside with a glass of water. “You should try to drink a bit, you're probably dehydrated.”

He sits up slowly, squinting, head pounding. “What time is it?”

“Almost nine,” she tells him, “I’m gonna go to bed soon. I think you should be alright to keep sleeping. Take another Tylenol, you can wake me up if you need anything.”

“Is Draco coming?” He asks, accepting the glass of cool water and drinking it in long, slow gulps.

“Not tonight.” She pets his hair and he leans into the touch, a subconscious reaction. “He should be back tomorrow. I think he’s staying with a friend.”

“Are you two…” He flushes at the question. _Stupid._

She shakes her head, laughing softly. “No, we’re not. I like girls, Credence.”

“Oh.” He’s surprised, but he tries not to show it. “Sorry. I just thought you guys… what about him?”

She shrugs. “I think he likes anyone. I don’t really question it.” She pats him on the head like a child. “Go back to sleep. You need to heal that cut quick so I can practice pulling out stitches.”

Credence is not so keen on that himself but he lies back, breathing slowly, counting in his head. Since he was a child, counting has always helped him calm down. He confided in Percy about this, told him about those times in the cellar, alone in the dark, or on the floor, getting hit with the belt until he felt blind and lightheaded. He would always count, one to fifty or one hundred or however long it would take for the pain to be over, for Ma to leave him so he could curl up and breathe through the aching of his tired body. Percy has recently started telling him to count out loud whenever he gets nervous and panics, sitting him down at his feet with one hand in his hair.

_Slow down, puppy,_ he says in his smooth, pacifying voice, _Count for me. Up to one hundred. There you go._

Credence bites into his fist to muffle the sound as he starts to sob. He doesn’t want Mal to worry. He’s so weak, so pathetic and needy, it’s barely been a day and he’s already crying like a baby because he misses Percy so much. It feels like it’s been weeks.

The thing is, Credence has never had somebody before, the way Percy is somebody. It sounds stupid, even in his head, because people have friends and lovers and family, they have people they talk to and people they go out with and people they kiss and touch and care for. It's such a simple fact of life but to Credence it has always felt like far too much to ask. And then there was Percy, and he didn't even have to ask. Percy just did. He just  _was._  
  
Now, no matter how hard he tries, Credence has trouble thinking of Percy in anything but the past tense.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> umm :( 
> 
> hold on til the next chapter, i swear it'll be worth it <3
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A possession. A sanctification. An absolution._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is technically the last chapter! there will be one more post, i just consider it more of an epilogue.
> 
> i had some fun and edited some of the macusa members' instagram posts - you can find them on tumblr:  
> [HERE](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/178016141160/macusa-on-instagram-for-the-indie-band-au-verse) and [HERE](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/178016142945/macusa-on-instagram-for-the-indie-band-au-verse).
> 
> enjoy, this is my favourite one ;)

Graves is counting.

The same way he coaxes Credence to calm him down: one to ten, ten to twenty, twenty to thirty. So on. Breathe in, out, in, out. Picture a circle. Getting bigger, shrinking down again. He’s anxious, but it’s the kind of slow panic that moves like honey through his veins. He thinks he’d probably rather be hyperventilating.

It’s been four days since Credence has been gone.  


Newt is waiting for Graves to call him back so they can figure out what they’re going to do. It’s Friday, late in the afternoon, and Credence is still gone.

For some reason he can’t make himself pick up the phone. That means action, that means accepting that Credence isn’t coming back on his own, that Credence did not need time or space but rather to get away from Graves. The thought makes him feel nauseous.

He has done nothing but drink and sleep since he returned from the church three days ago. He lays in bed for hours, one of Credence’s unwashed tee shirts pressed into his face. Smelling the boy’s sweat, the natural scent of his body, sweet and feverish, warm and holy. Sometimes he plays games on Credence’s phone, Pacman or Snake or those stupid birds he loves so much, pretending the boy is watching over his shoulder, instructing him. At one point he opens Credence’s voicemail just to listen to the sound of his voice in the recorded message, over and over again until he wants to cry.

_Hi, you’ve reached Credence Barebone. I can’t get to the phone right now. If you leave a message, I’ll call you back as soon as I can._

_Hi, you’ve reached Credence Barebone. I can’t get to the phone right now. If you leave a message, I’ll call you back as soon as I can._

_Hi, you’ve reached Credence Barebone. I can’t —_  
  


Graves throws the phone across the room where it hits the wall with a dull thud. He knows without looking that the screen is shattered. He puts his face in his pillow and screams until he runs out of air.  


Newt keeps calling and Graves finally picks up.

“Hey, Percy. I’m with Tina. We’re thinking we should wait until tomorrow morning and then go ask around at all the restaurants and cafés near your apartment, see if anyone saw him. Maybe he asked someone for directions… he must have eaten somewhere, right?”

Graves can barely find the energy to respond. “Yeah… yeah. Sure.”

Newt pauses. Quiet static through the phone line. “I’m sorry, Percy.”

“Me too,” he whispers. He hangs up.

 

——

 

Graves wakes suddenly to the sound of aggressive knocking on his apartment door. He went to bed early, not even seven o’clock, and it took him hours to fall asleep,his worry and agitation keeping him restless and on edge. He stumbles out of bed in a sleepy haze of irritation. It’s most likely Newt or Tina, and he tries to tell himself it will be good news if they’re showing up unexpected like this.

The knocking persists.

“Alright, fuck,” he mutters, nearly hitting his head on the doorframe of his bedroom, pulling a tee shirt on over his head and rubbing his eyes. He tries to straighten up a little, look less like a zombie, but it isn’t an easy feat. He does his best not to trip over himself as he makes it to the door. Pulls it open.

He doesn’t even have a second to register what’s happening before he’s being thrown backwards, a smaller body wrapped around his own, both of them falling to the floor, knocked down hard by the desperate embrace. The door slamming in their wake. He recognizes the smell before he sees  _—_

“ _Credence_ ,” he gasps.

In awe.

In _worship._

“I’m sorry,” the boy sobs, clinging to him, “Please let me come home.”

Graves cradles his head, pulling him impossibly closer, wanting their very cells to merge, not a single gap between their bodies acceptable to him. Clothes are an inconvenience, their skin is simply a shell that gets in the way. Graves thinks back to particle theory, to eleventh grade biology, his teacher explaining to them how you can never really touch anything. How no matter how close you get, two electrons repulse each other, perpetually separated. How touch is really just a grand illusion. Graves feels furious at the thought, clinging tighter to Credence's warm body, feeling his pulse beat softly against his own skin.

“I was so worried, baby,” Graves says finally, turning them over until they’re side by side, face to face on the hard living room floor. He brushes Credence’s hair back, tracing the side of his cheek where he notices a poorly stitched gash, two inches long, angry and red. He frowns. “What happened to you?”

Credence shuts his eyes. “I went to see Ma, to try to get the money back. She threw a drinking glass at my head.”

It takes all of Graves’ self control not to scream. Instead, he caresses the boy’s face, staring at him intently. “Who stitched it?”

“A friend,” Credence says with a secretive, content look, “I’ll have to tell you about it later.”

“Okay,” Graves whispers, marvelling at the serene expression on the boy’s face. His boy, his beautiful, beautiful boy. His marble statue, his wildfire, his downfall and his soul. “I love you, Credence.”  


His eyes flutter open. “I love you too,” he says, with hushed urgency. Leans forward, opens his mouth to Graves. Not even kissing, just waiting to be kissed. Graves smiles to himself and presses his lips to the boy’s, plush and dewy, sweet and warm. He kisses him slowly, sleepily, open-mouthed. Credence is so responsive, so enamoured, making faint sounds against Graves’ mouth.

He pulls back, but only an inch. “Why today? Why did you decide to come back?”

Credence gives him a sheepish smile. “It’s my birthday.”

Jesus, Graves hadn’t even thought to ask. All these months and not once had it come up.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he says softly, tucking a stray curl behind Credence’s ear. “January 23rd, huh? So you’re an Aquarius.”

“I can’t believe you know that stuff,” Credence smirks. “I had a teacher at Ilvermorny who thought it was the most definitive mark of our personalities.”

“It’s interesting,” Graves admits, “Tina used to be obsessed. She made us all do our birth charts at band practice.”

“What are you?” Credence’s hand runs up and down Graves’ arm, his cold fingers sending shivers through the man’s body.

“Aries. April fourth. It’s pretty accurate.” He pauses. “Wow. You’re twenty years old, Credence. Never a teenager again.”

Credence winces. “I don’t feel very mature yet.”

Graves shushes him, kissing him deeply again, one hand coming up to cradle the boy’s jaw. He’s careful not to touch the stitched up wound when he rolls over on top of him, pinning him to the floor, one hand holding both skinny wrists above his head.

“I love you,” he breathes, “I love you more than anything in this world.”

Credence squirms, smiles, eyes crinkled up, cheeks pink. “Four days without you felt like four years.”

“Never leave me again,” Graves says softly against the boy’s collarbone. “Next time I’ll hunt you down. You can’t hide, baby, never again.”

Credence shudders at the words. Graves can feel the shift in atmosphere, the arousal coursing full speed through the boy’s veins. “Never, daddy,” he whispers.  


  
And that is all he needs.  
  


Their next kiss is urgent, desperate, as if they’re running out of time. As if Credence is only back for a moment, as if he’ll be gone again as soon as Graves pulls away. So he doesn’t. Credence moans, unabashed, into Graves’ mouth, his kisses clumsy and needy and so sweet, so boyish and immature. Graves pushes the boy’s legs apart with his own, dropping down between them, rolling his hips, pressing into Credence’s growing erection. It’s obvious through his sweatpants, that thin, soft material, black and perfectly fitted to his legs — expensive, the boy had protested, but once Graves had seen him try them on there was no way he couldn’t buy them. He’d spent so many hours on their couch or in their bed, Credence in his lap, touching him through those pants until he came again and again, not relenting until he was drained and begging and the pants were soaked through with his mess. His sweetness. Graves could drink it. Graves could eat him whole.

“Please,” he’s whining, his hips pressing upward, “Please, daddy.”

“Patient, baby,” Graves chides, “I always give you what you want.”

Credence looks up at him, eyes dancing. “Then do it.”

“Attitude,” Graves laughs, “If I didn’t miss you so much I’d spank you for that.”

Credence groans, going limp. “God, fucking do it. Please.”  


Graves has never heard the boy swear like this and something about it makes him lose his bearings completely. He yanks Credence up, his slack body falling gracefully over Graves’ lap where the older man throws him. He tugs Credence’s wrists together again, behind his back his time, holding them tight in one hand. The other pulls his sweatpants down just past his knees, tracing circles over the boy’s ass through his constellation-print underwear.

Credence is panting, his face pressed into the carpet, drooling, unashamed. Graves shakes his head in wonder. “My fucking miracle. I can’t believe you.”

Credence laughs, strained, the sweetest sound. The _crack_ echoes through the room as Graves brings his hand down against the boy’s ass. Credence jumps, flinches, moans. 

“That’s for leaving,” Graves growls. Pets gentle circles before pulling back and hitting him again. “That’s for not taking your phone, not calling me.” Credence whines and bucks against Graves’ lap. Graves grabs him roughly by the hip with one hand digging into the soft flesh, props him up. Takes away the contact. He wrenches the boy’s underwear down as well, nearly ripping it in the process. Exposes the bare flesh of his ass, so perfect and unmarked. Rears back. Another strike, harder than the first two, and Credence yelps, burying his face in the plush carpet.

“That’s for staying away for four” — _smack —_ “fucking _” — smack — “_ days _._ ”

He spanks him five more times in rapid succession and the boy keeps trying to drop his hips, trying to rub against Graves’ knees, trying to come, but every time Graves props him up again and hits him harder. He’s sobbing by the end of it and Graves flips him over, picks him up like a baby, cradling him against his chest. Credence looks blissed out, dazed and aroused, tears streaking his face, rosy and wet. 

“Are you okay, baby?”

The boy nods, wordless, turning his face into Graves’ chest. His hips are still rocking slowly, fucking into nothing, into empty air. Taking pity on him, Graves reaches down and takes him in hand. The silky flesh is so familiar, so comfortable and pleasing in his palm, and Credence moans softly, shuddering into Graves’ touch.

“I’m going to take you to bed,” he murmurs. He lets go of Credence’s cock and the boy lets out a faint sound of protest that makes Graves ache deep in his body. He stands, hoisting Credence up with him, carrying him like a child into their bedroom and placing him gently on the bed. He helps Credence get his shirt off and slide his pants and underwear the rest of the way off his body, leaving the boy naked and shivering with need, spread-eagle on the sheets.  
  


Graves stands before him, undressing slowly, taking it all in. He tosses his shirt aside, gets out of his own sweatpants, his boxers. His cock is hard already, hanging heavy and dark. Credence stares at him, hungry, desperate.

Graves climbs into bed and pushes Credence onto his belly, running his hand over the boy’s feverish back. He trembles beneath the touch, wanting, terrified. He’s achingly hard, dripping precum slow and steady, trying to discreetly push his hips against the sheets, cock rubbing into the white silk. 

“Will you let me inside you, Credence?” Graves whispers, rubbing the boy’s back. 

Credence whimpers and it’s enough of a _yes_ for Graves. He reaches around, cradling Credence’s jaw with one hand, his fingers pressing at soft, plush lips. His mouth opens, compliant. Graves pushes his fingers into the warm, wet mouth, feeling Credence’s tongue swirling around them, pulling him in deeper. He pushes forward until the boy gags, one hand still gripping his jaw and the other gently holding his throat.

He pulls his fingers out slowly, the inside of Credence’s throat spasming around them. He sputters softly as Graves pets his hair, his jaw, reaching down with his dripping hand to the space between the boy’s parted legs.  
  


“Please,” Credence whispers.  
  


“Yes,” Graves replies.

  
He rubs one finger at the boy’s soft opening, tight and untouched, quivering at the press of Graves’ hand. An intrusion. His virginal body trembling, rejecting. Graves circles his hole with one finger before pressing in. Credence twitches, sucking in a tight breath, clenching around him.

“Relax, puppy,” Graves murmurs, hot breath against the back of Credence’s neck, the side of his face. He ducks in, lips on his ear, tongue at the base of his throat. Credence shudders. Opens. Graves pushes in further, searching. Probing.

Credence jolts. Graves hits something that pushes him into a burst of sensation, stomach clenching, moaning wantonly. Graves laughs quietly, curling his finger, pressing against the spot again and again. Credence is panting, rubbing against the sheets and Graves grabs his hip roughly, props him up again. He sobs at the lost contact.

  
“Be good,” Graves says darkly, “and I’ll give you what you want.”  
  


He continues to press at that spot, so blinding and sensitive, with clinical precision. A detached curiosity. How far can he push the boy, what can he pull out of him? He needs to fuck him deeper, stretch him wider, but not without lube. He doesn’t want Credence to hurt, to bleed. He reaches across to the bedside table with his one free hand, manages to get the drawer open and pull out the tube. Squeezes some onto his hand and warms it between his fingers.

He adds another finger in with the first and Credence keens at the slick stretch, losing control and dropping his hips, grinding against the sheets again. His cock dripping, aching.

Graves sighs, wearing his impatience plainly. Once again he forces Credence’s hips up, away from the stimulation. 

“You will come like this or not at all.”  


The words send spiderweb tingles throughout Credence’s body that Graves can see, each nerve lighting up, electric. He struggles to stay propped up on his skinny arms, back probably aching, cock just inches from the smooth relief of the bedsheets. Graves fingers him slowly. Credence is so soft inside, so warm. Suddenly, the boy tenses, and his words come out babbled, frantic:  
  
“I’m gonna, Percy, please, I’m gonna—"  
  


Graves ignores him.  
  


The boy’s hips drop, a visible shudder running through him head to toe, his cock jumping and spilling warm and wet across the bed. Graves keeps pushing, stretching, ignoring Credence’s pitiful orgasm. The boy burns, face a rosy pink, humiliation making him want to curl up but Graves keeping him impossibly open.

A third finger presses in and Graves loses his patience. He scissors his fingers, observing how wide he can stretch the boy, and then pulls at his own hard cock, covering it with slick lube.  


“You feel good, baby?” He says breathlessly, his arousal spiking, eyes squeezed shut as he works himself slowly.

“Mhm,” Credence whimpers, pressed into the bed. Trembling and oversensitive but wanting to be good.

Graves kisses the top of his head and then lines up, placing one hand on Credence’s shoulder and one on the small of his back and —  


Credence practically screams. Graves pushes his head down until he bites into the pillow he’s resting on.  


“Good, so good,” he murmurs, kissing the boy’s hot cheek. Tears are forming in the corners of his eyes and Graves licks them away. “So good for me.”

It takes a while for Credence to relax enough to accommodate him, Graves pushing in little by little until he’s seated deep within the boy, the burning hot sweetness of his small body enveloping him, and he marvels at how well he fits within such a tiny vessel. Holding him. Containing him. Contracting around him, as if pulling him ever closer.  
  


“You’re beautiful, Credence, so beautiful.” He pulls out slowly and surges back in, the boy choking beneath him, beyond forming coherent sentences, words, even sounds. “I want to live inside you. I never want to come out.”  
  


By the time he builds up a rhythm the boy is hard again, slowly dragging his cock against the sheets once more. Graves isn’t cruel; he won’t make the boy bring himself off on the bed yet again like a highschooler. He reaches beneath him, hand taking hold of his warm, dripping length. He tugs at the boy lazily, feeling him tremble beneath his hand with need.

Graves thrusts faster, dick buried impossibly deep in the boy, and Credence stammers out his name and comes again, all over Graves’ hand. The way he clenches involuntarily around him is fucking euphoric. Graves mumbles something relatively kind into the back of Credence’s neck and then pulls out, flips him over onto his back and thrusts back in.  


Credence chokes, hypersensitive and on fire, and Graves kisses him hard, their bodies pushed together, sharing spit and sweat, fitting perfectly into each other’s shape.

“You’re fucking perfect, Credence,” Graves whispers, breath coming out hard and sharp, “God, I want to fuck you for the rest of my life. I can’t believe I waited so long.”

Credence mewls, too far gone for words, eyes rolling back as Graves fucks him in long, deep strokes. His hole still pulsing, squeezing him tighter rhythmically, the boy’s small body spasming out of control. A possession. A sanctification. An absolution.

“You can come for me one more time, can’t you, puppy?” Graves coaxes breathlessly. He can feel the boy’s cock, hard again, rubbing up against his belly with every thrust. He angles himself until he feels Credence’s breath hitch, knows he’s hitting the spot he’s looking for. Then he pulls Credence’s wrists up above his head again and keeps him pinned with one hand, the other digging into his hip with a bruising grip, fucking him so hard the boy’s head comes dangerously close to knocking against the headboard.

He feels himself cresting, reaching, and he kisses Credence hard and deep, frantic and breathless, tongue sinking into the boy’s waiting mouth. He comes harder than he ever has, spilling deep inside the boy’s warm, open body, face buried in his neck. Credence’s hips are seizing through his third orgasm and he’s gasping beneath Graves.

Graves stays there, buried in his boy, treasuring the moment just a little longer. And then he gently pulls out, hearing Credence’s soft cry of distress as Graves’ cum starts to leak out of him.

“Shh,” Graves shushes, moving to lay beside him, stroking his sweat-sticky hair. “It’s okay. You’re just a little open right now.”

Credence shudders, staring up at him with unfocused eyes, apparently turned on by fucking anything he says. Graves smiles fondly, running a hand down Credence’s belly, pressing down firmly. The boy squirms, uncomfortable, draws himself in. Graves’ fingers dip down beneath his cock, reaching his warm opening, stretched and dripping wet. Credence tries to curl up but Graves tuts, pushing two fingers easily inside the boy.

“Too much,” he cries weakly, “Daddy, please.”

Graves pushes in one more time and then pulls out, circling his fingers around his entrance. Credence's cock is twitching already and it’s a wonder he’s even conscious, let alone that his body can still show any small sign of interest.

“You’re a miracle, Credence,” he sighs.

Credence turns onto his side to face him. A sleepy smile plastered on his face. Blissful and content, his body soft and pliant in the afterglow. “I liked that. A lot.”

“I’m glad to be your first.” Graves kisses his damp forehead. Then pulls back suddenly. “I am your first, right? Not that it matters, really, I just…”

Credence laughs quietly. “You’re my first. First and only to ever make Credence Barebone come. You can put that in the next Rolling Stone article.”

“So cheeky,” Graves marvels, “Just look what turning twenty has done to you. A bratty little slut.”

“Hey,” Credence protests weakly, his eyes closed, batting a hand against Graves’ arm.  


Graves rolls the boy over, pulling him in close to his chest, one leg between his, arm wrapped around his middle. 

“Happy birthday, Credence,” he murmurs. 

The city humming quietly. Moonlight spilling everywhere. Credence, already asleep in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE YOU GO! THERE IT IS! finally they consummate their love and alllllll is well.
> 
> stay tuned for the epilogue
> 
> <3


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly when i started writing this fic i never expected such sweet responses from so many people, so thank you all for the comments/kudos/etc! <3
> 
> these two fics are the foundational parts of the story and i think they can work as a standalone. HOWEVER, there are gonna be quite a few oneshots/sequels in the future because i'm not at all done with this 'verse. i have a final instalment planned that will be set several years in the future, but between now and then i'd like to write much more about these characters :) so...  
> [i am taking prompts for this universe!! if you have any ideas/wishes/lil things you'd like to see happen, hit me up on tumblr and i'll see what i can do! <3](http://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/ask)
> 
> ALSO, this fic now has a playlist as well! listen to it [here!](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/178098412180/forsaken-heaven-to-bring-you-my-love-fic)
> 
> thank you all again, i hope you enjoy this lil epilogue.

Credence is still pressed close to his chest when Graves wakes. Their bodies are sticky with sweat and the room smells like sex in such a pleasant and saccharine way. Graves takes a moment to appreciate the boy’s warmth, his body rising and falling slowly with his breath, before he extracts himself, careful not to wake him. He steps into a fresh pair of boxers and a tee shirt, padding out of the room and into the kitchen. He puts on a pot of coffee and then leans over the countertop, face in his hands. He has to text Tina and Newt, let them know Credence showed up — he wasn’t exactly thinking of that last night. His phone is still on the coffee table where he’d left it. It’s early, not even nine o’clock, and luckily Newt hasn’t texted him yet.

  
_Credence came back last night,_ he types into the group chat, _it was his birthday BTW. You guys better get him presents._  
  


He sets the phone down as the coffee maker beeps. He pours himself a cup, black and steaming, and sits at the counter, checking up on their social media on his phone. It’s been difficult to keep up lately, their numbers have been rising exponentially, hundreds of messages and comments every day. A text from Newt comes in, followed closely by one from Tina.  
  


_Thank God! I’m on it. What do you think he’d like?_  
  


_How about some condoms?_  
  


Graves rolls his eyes.  
  


_Fuck off, Tina. No use in starting now… ;)_  
  


_OMG!!!! You creepy old man. You fucking pervert. Humbert Humbert. I’m calling the police_  
  


Graves laughs out loud at that one.  
  


_He’s 20, you fuckers._  
  


Just then he hears soft footsteps behind him and turns to see Credence emerging from the bedroom. He’s wearing one of Graves’ too-big college sweatshirts, ironically owned considering he never actually attended the college it advertises. His hair is mussed, shiny-wild curls, his eyes hooded. He smiles crookedly, tilting his head. “Morning.”

“Morning to you too, sleepy,” Graves says affectionately. “You want coffee?”

The boy nods with a yawn, crossing the room and settling down on the sofa. Graves pours him a cup, adding in a generous amount of cream and sugar and some chocolate syrup for good measure. He delivers it to the boy’s waiting hands. Credence cradles the mug, sipping slowly, legs tucked beneath him.   
  
“Can I take you out for dinner tonight? We can pretend it’s still your birthday.”

Credence’s smile shows his dimples. “Yeah. I’d like that. Can Newt and Tina come?”

“Of course, I just texted them and let them know you’re back.” Graves doesn’t go into detail about the conversation. “We can go anywhere you’d like. Is there anything else you want to do today?”

Credence looks down into his cup. “I just want to be with you.”

Graves softens, steps over to the sofa and sits down beside the boy, pulling him in close with an arm around his shoulder. “We can stay inside and watch movies all day, then. Until it’s time to go to dinner.” A thought comes to him suddenly. “There’s just one thing I have to do. It won’t take long. I’ll be back quickly.”

“Okay,” Credence murmurs, “Do you have my phone?”

Graves winces. “Yeah, I kinda… uh. One minute.”  


He goes into the bedroom, retrieves the phone from where it had landed in the far corner. The screen is completely smashed, a spiderweb crack right down the centre. The screen flickers when he turns it on. Credence’s eyes widen at the sight. “What happened?”

“Let’s not get into it,” Graves mutters, “I’ll get it fixed. I’m sorry, baby. You can play games on my laptop if you want.”

“Okay,” Credence says shyly, “If that’s okay.”  


Graves sets him up with his Macbook, opening a bunch of tabs with flash game websites ready to go. The kid is so easy to please, content with an 8-bit game of fucking Pacman. Graves’ mind wanders to full gaming set ups, a computer of his own, consoles and fancy new games for the boy. Soon enough, he’s sure.

He slips Credence’s phone into his pocket as he heads out the front door, promising to be back within the hour. He’ll tell Credence he had the screen fixed but he’s going to buy him a new phone, of course. He gets it over with quickly, switching the SIM cards and popping the case onto the new phone, handing the massacred one over to the Apple store employee.

After that, one more stop. He’s had this one waiting for quite a while, since they returned form tour, though the timing had never seemed right. Now with the elation of Credence’s return and the boy’s monumental birthday, Graves knows there’s no question.

 

——

 

Graves pushes open the apartment door and finds Credence still in that sweater, curled up on the couch, Macbook on his lap. He smiles brightly at Graves and then his eyes zero in on the sleek black hardshell guitar case in his hand.

“What’s that?” He asks. His tone is practiced, casual.

“First of all.” Graves hands him the new phone. “They fixed it right away.”

Credence smirks. “I’m really not that stupid. But thank you,” he adds. His eyes float back to the case.

“Credence,” Graves begins, racking his brain for the right words. Everything he comes up with sounds lame and cliche, but he thinks the boy will understand. “You are the most brilliant and talented person I’ve ever known. The moment I heard you play, I knew it. Without a doubt.” He sets the case on the table in front of the boy, sitting down in the chair across from him. “You play more beautifully than anybody and you do it on the cheapest, most beat up guitar I’ve ever seen. I always wonder what it would sound like on a high caliber instrument.” He lifts his hands, gestures to the case. “Go ahead, baby.”

Eyes wide, holding his breath, Credence flips the latches and opens the case.  
  
The guitar is fucking beautiful — Graves fell in love with it the moment he saw it. But it was Credence’s hands he pictured playing it, not his own.

A Telecaster, an American Elite in Mystic Blue, subtly sparkling in the light, an icy sheen, a beautifully carved f-hole half-hollowing the body. It’s custom, lavish, a collector’s item, really. A three thousand dollar guitar. Every single penny worth it for the look on Credence’s face alone.

He can’t speak, just stares. Afraid to touch it. Afraid to move.

“You’re the only person who could do it justice,” Graves says softly, “Happy birthday, angel.”  


Credence looks up, eyes brimming, lip trembling. He starts to cry, silent and overwhelmed, and Graves moves to sit beside him, wrapping him up in his arms and rocking back and forth. “I love you, Credence. You deserve more than I could ever give to you. All I can do is keep trying.”

Credence clings to him so tightly, whispering a constant stream of _thankyouthankyouthankyou_ into his shoulder. 

“There’s an amp too, but it’s at the warehouse,” Graves adds, “A Princeton Reverb, the red one you liked at the music store. I didn’t think it would have the same effect if I lugged it up here too.”

Credence looks at him, reverential. “Can we go play it?”

Graves laughs. “Of course, puppy, whatever you want. It’s your birthday.”

 

Credence gets dressed in record time, practically bouncing with excitement. Graves packs the guitar securely into the back of his car and they slip into the front. The snow has mostly melted and the sky is cloudy save for a single beam of light, always just up ahead, just out of reach as Graves drives them down the busy city street. There’s a CD playing quietly and Graves absently turns the volume up — PJ Harvey, one of his favourite records. Credence tilts his head back, watching Graves carefully, a tiny smile on his face.   
  


“I love this song,” he says softly.  
  


Graves reaches over, one hand on the boy’s skinny leg, running his thumb over his knee the way he had so many months ago, the first time he had Credence in his car. For the first time in quite a while, the traffic doesn’t bother him, doesn’t cause him to curse or sigh or glare at other drivers. He simply enjoys — enjoys the long drive, the slow movements, the beautiful boy in the passenger seat, the song playing loud from the stereo speakers.

 

_I’ve travelled over dry earth and floods_

_Hell and high water, to bring you my love_

 

_Climbed over mountains, travelled the sea_

_Cast down off heaven, cast down on my knees_

 

_I’ve laid with the devil, cursed God above_

_Forsaken heaven to bring you my love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there you have it. 
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> [reminder: i'm taking prompts - i want to write as many sequels, both long and short, as possible before i go ahead with the final instalment. hit me up on tumblr to chat/prompt/etc :)](cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/ask)
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> [PS - this is the guitar Graves buys for Credence!](https://d1aeri3ty3izns.cloudfront.net/media/16/165550/1200/preview.jpg)


End file.
